


Three: Superbad Mary

by Iwantthatcoat



Series: Mary, Mary, where're you going to? [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I dont want to give plot away, M/M, Talk of miscarriages, Unapologetic Mary bashing, but if the thought of Mary injured or dead bothers you..., if you want her to have redeeming qualities or sympathy look elsewhere, no actual miscarriages, you should read one of the other Three stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 34,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4772117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She rather liked being Mary Morstan, nurse. It wasn't her, of course, but it fit better than the countless other identities she had tried on in the past, and it seemed to earn her a bit more respect. But now she had to become Mary Morstan, girl-who-looks-kind-of-like-this-guy-John's-ex-girlfriend. She had mentioned that to Jim, and he just burst out laughing. It made her want to put a bullet in him right then and there. But she just waited for him to ride through whatever was so goddamn funny, while she quietly pictured bits of brain and skull flying out the back of his head, until he once again switched back to his serious mode and gave her detailed instructions."</p><p> </p><p>Here it is...part three of three... of "Three"! (Yes the word "three" has begin to look odd to me from overuse.) We have had a bad Mary, who didn't really necessarily mean to be bad..she just kinda was... and a Mary that actually tried to be good, but ended up doing not so good things (and I booted her out of the picture anyway, unrepentant Johnlocker that I am). Now, here is the Mary many of you have been waiting for. Bad from day one. No remorse whatsoever. You might even call her....Superbad Mary!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The April weather wasn't nearly cold enough for a heavy coat and scarf, but the instructions had been very specific: **When you drop off the application and CV, wear a dark grey wool-blend coat and a blue scarf. And if it is cold enough, a black wool hat.**

She sighed and put them on, knowing the coat wasn't quite dark enough (the selection was limited in the stores at this time of year), and hoping against hope that it wasn't another fetish. The last time he had asked her to change her appearance, she had had to lose nearly all her hair in an extreme buzzcut, dye what remained of it auburn, and wear an electric-blue dress. Every day. For a week. Weirdos.

It was frustrating. Not because she couldn't successfully work with disguises, but simply because she didn't like the idea of pretending she was someone else _again_. She rather _liked_ being Mary Morstan, nurse. It wasn't _her_ , of course, but it fit better than the countless other identities she had tried on in the past, and it seemed to earn her a bit more respect. But now she was about to become Mary Morstan, girl-who-looks-kind-of-like-this-doctor-guy-John's-ex-girlfriend. She had mentioned that very thing to Jim, and he just burst out laughing. It made her want to put a bullet in him right then and there. But she just waited for him to ride through whatever was so goddamn funny, while she quietly pictured bits of brain and skull flying out the back of his head, until he once again switched back to his serious mode and gave her detailed instructions. 

If she had to be someone else, you'd think Jim could at least _show her a picture_ ; she'd be able to match her would-be-doppelgänger's personal style more precisely-- instead of working off of this generic manic-pixie prototype that was all the rage lately. Quirky was fine, but it wasn't much to go on. She needed a _personality_. If he would be so kind as to show her a _video_ (she knew he would have some sort of surveillance footage-- he always did), she'd at least get her speech pattern down right. That was, after all, her particular speciality. 

She'd still figure it all out on her own of course, but it was a huge waste of time-- and that was annoying. And not a good way to start off a business relationship. She already didn't much like the way Jim planned things. He'd ignore the details, and then suddenly it would be like some sort of switch flipped, and he would bombard her with a huge list of new rules to follow. Not to mention the way he would decide to let someone go and then suddenly change his mind about it. One time she was all packed up, when he said he'd changed his mind and she should keep on the target after all. She’d barely had time to realign her scope and had been furious-- looking like a bloody idiot, rushing and pointing a laser at the goddamn wall instead of her target while she readjusted her sights.

A quick pip. Another text. Looked like he was back to micromanaging again. She gave it a passing glance-- just directions to the clinic. _Very specific_ directions. He apparently wanted to dictate precisely how she _got_ to the job interview in addition to what she wore. Control freak. She let out a deep sigh. Fine. Baker Street Station was out of the way-- and to go there first, just so she could take the Metropolitan (and why the hell not the Hammersmith?) to Farringdon, seemed ridiculous when she had a straight shot to St Paul's-- but she was paid to do as she was told. She bristled, but obeyed. Wearing that getup on the tube was uncomfortable, but Jim seemed to have eyes in the back of his head... or spies everywhere... or both. Best to just do it. 

She surveyed the car. Far too many people to take in properly during the morning commute, but no one seemed to be of any particular interest-- at least not in her compartment. 

When she got to the clinic, she introduced herself to the receptionist and gave her the type of winning smile that came with knowing the job was already hers. She wasn't quite sure who had pulled what strings to ensure that, and she didn't particularly care. Everyone had a role to play. Hers was to get hired, then to watch everything Dr John Watson did and report back.

Of course she already knew him. Well, knew _of_ him, anyway. Everyone did. The papers had been plastered with pictures of him and Sherlock Holmes...Hatman and Robin. From the looks of it, keeping tabs on The Boy Wonder would be simple. He didn't look like he went anywhere, ever. The receptionist had ushered her into his office, and she had never been in a room that exhibited less personality. No pictures, no momentos, not even a photo screensaver. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen multi-colored pipes on a blackened computer screen. Even the wall calendar was a promotional gift from a drug company. Novartis. Antidepressants. Well, John Watson looked like he could use some. 

At first, she hadn’t been so sure it would work, hanging with him, getting to know him, probably dating him a bit-- not when she didn't have much information about his usual type-- but once she saw him, she knew it would be easy. He would be driving every _other_ person away, and all she needed was to be a shoulder to cry on and a good listening ear and he would probably be endlessly devoted to her. No wonder Jim hadn't bothered with details. It was all too simple. And as he was walking past her, he actually did a sort of double-take, seeing her sitting in the waiting room-- so clearly she was doing something right.


	2. Chapter 2

_Canteen again? Bound to lose quite a bit of weight if I have to keep following him here._

__A week and a half, and nothing had looked even remotely appetizing to Mary. She had, however, managed during that time to confirm that there was no one in John Watson’s pathetic life by watching him carefully from across the room. If anything, people seemed to avoid him. Must be the way he still defended his fake-genius business partner. Flatmate. Whatever it was they had been-- if the press were to be believed. She was more than a bit curious after meeting him._ _

__Of course she knew Sherlock Holmes had been the real deal. And he just might have been good enough to fake his death-- just like Jim-- though it nagged at the back of her mind that she hadn't actually seen her boss in person for quite some time. Even she had been wondering if the man she worked for had actually been actor Richard Brook, and now, perhaps she was speaking to yet another person who had stepped into the empty space and become "Jim Moriarty". She was no stranger to code names being used to represent a position of leadership, rather than a specific person._ _

__Didn't matter. Someone else who cared more about Truth could speculate about that. She was still getting all _she_ cared about-- money and protection. Solving puzzles was never worth the effort. She had a job to do, regardless of the actual identity of her employer, and that was to watch John Watson, report anything unusual, and monitor for the return of Sherlock Holmes. Apparently death was only as permanent as the fairy tales Jim had so meticulously worked into his plans. And if he were to reveal himself to anyone, this would be the man. Well... time to make a move._ _

__"May I join you?"_ _

__"Oh, of course," John replied, somewhat absentmindedly, as he pushed his tray, premade turkey sandwich still untouched, to the side._ _

__"It's not exactly _bad_ food, but it's not exactly _good_ either. I could go for something a bit more exotic. Thing is, you can't tell which are the great little hole-in-the-walls and which will leave you sick the next day. Know any good Chinese?"_ _

__Mary watched carefully as John was about to comment on this; he even got so far as opening his mouth before closing it again, looking a bit worse for the passing thought, whatever it had been. "It's been a while. I can see if any of the little places I used to go to are still around."_ _

__"Oh. Good. Lunch is on me tomorrow, then. Thanks for steering me in the right direction."_ _

__John seemed to realize he had just been manipulated into asking himself on a date. He smiled and gave a quick nod. "Sure thing."_ _

__"Pick one and I'll look it up...see if it's still around. How long has it been since you've gone?"_ _

__"A little over seven months."_ _

__Exactly how long Sherlock had been dead, give or take a week. She wondered if they had gone out to eat a lot. He clearly hasn't since._ _

__

__

__It was still in business._ _

__***_ _

__Back at the clinic, she started the triage assessment on an incoming patient and thought more about tomorrow. Just getting him out of his loop from hospital to flat would be a step in the right direction. It wasn't that she felt particularly compelled to cheer him up. It was just easier if he was doing things *with her*. It would make the tailing part much easier._ _

__She looked carefully at him as she announced the next patient. She tried to see past the mustache. Not particularly stunning-- but cute enough. A tiny guy in button-down shirts and jumpers. She looked more closely, cautiously scrutinizing the body under all those layers. Maybe not quite so tiny. Short. But broad. Fit. And? Hmmmm... Maybe this assignment could be fun after all._ _

__***_ _

__John grasped the door handle, smiled a bit of a knowing smile and held it open for her._ _

__"Thank you, John. I... I don't know anyone in London, and sometimes eating by myself just-- feels a bit lonely. I mean, it's OK to be unattached. But I don't have any friends in town, and I...well... only child and both my parents gone by the time I was a teenager. You'd think you'd get used to being alone, but...well what I meant to say is it's really nice to have someone to have lunch with."_ _

__John's smile was soft. "Anytime. I'm not an only child, but sometimes I can't help but wish I was. My sister has... some issues."_ _

__"Hmmm, that usually means drugs or alcohol."_ _

__"Yeah it usually does, and this is no different. Alcohol."_ _

__"I'm sorry. My dad died in combat. We travelled a lot, when he was alive. Different bases. Never really felt like I had a home, though wherever my family was felt right. When my mum was killed in a car accident, I went to live with my uncle. He drank. I left." Not a word of it true, but, an alcoholic in the family, military life not quite remembered well enough to be accurate-- always nice bonding topics. That her parents were both dead was true. That her mum died in a car wreck was also true. Along with her dad. She had been on vacation, visiting her grandmother, or else she would have been in that car as well. Nana had simply headed to church and said something about it all being God's will-- equally tragic, and her life afterwards was even more so, but that made for a poor bonding story. Less universal. This way, they'd help each other. Or at least it would appear that way._ _

__John continued. "Sometimes you have to cut them loose until they get their act together. Otherwise, they just keep disappointing you. You forgive them, and they just break your heart again next time."_ _

__"And soon you just don't trust anybody."_ _

__"Yeah."_ _

__"Shame, that. If you don't take a chance on people, you miss out on life."_ _

__John smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, you do."_ _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Ariane DeVere! (http://arianedevere.livejournal.com) for your transcripts. You saved me from certain death of feels from repetitive watchings of Season Three.  
> Sorry it's been a while on this update.

At the one year mark, John went off to the gravesite by himself, and Mary stayed behind. She wondered if he was talking to...him... about her. About how she had pulled John out of the darkest depression. How she had been the best thing to every happen to him.

A full year and no sign of Sherlock Holmes. It was abundantly clear that if he were still alive, John had no knowledge of it. 

Their relationship was progressing. She was surprised, with her presence in both his work and his romantic life, that John wasn't sick of her by now. When he came back from the gravesite, he asked her if she would like to move in together. She looked down shyly and nodded. 

John was... sweet. She liked being around him. She liked living with him. Of course she was more than a tiny bit bored, though. That's where Cath came in. 

Cath-- her friend who gave her the occasional assignment. She’d thought briefly about giving up on freelance work, but she was no housewife-- even if she had picked up a few domestic skills here and there with the intention of appearing to be something somewhat closer to one. Funny how if you could bake a decent batch of cookies or a loaf of bread, suddenly people supplied all the rest for you. Clearly, you were meant for a life of barefooted domestic bliss. It made for an easy cover. Consequently, it made someone like her especially valuable. Still, the cases she took were few and far between. A low profile kept her safe. Too low and she was bored to death, though. And if things went well, she could disappear right into "the future Mrs Watson.". 

Of course it was on one of those casual jobs where she recognized him. One of the brothers of the Waters family. 

She could only hope he didn't recognize _her._ Before she could get rid of him, anyway. Which she eventually did, of course. She just hadn't counted on Magnussen finding out about it. A fact she wouldn't be aware of for another year and a half.

Two years after the death of Sherlock Holmes, and she and John were standing in front of a still-shiny, black tombstone-- together this time. This year, she had made the cut. She stifled a smile when he asked her to accompany him. Mary waited to hear that she should abandon the job, but no such message came. Her once weekly reports dropped to monthly, and she couldn't help but feel just a little bit...sad. She would probably have to break up with John soon, and she found she didn't really want to. And she was somewhat surprised to find it wasn't merely due to the excellent cover he provided. It was nice to have someone so devoted to her. The fact that they were both running away from something else, what did it matter? It felt good to be doing that running together for a change. Maybe she was softening...becoming a bit more of a romantic. She didn't trust it. She never would. But, he seemed to want to make it work so very much. All she had to do was let him.

Then it happened. The invitation to a fancy dinner the following night. The clearing of their schedules for the next workday was a dead giveaway. A proposal was on the horizon, one she hadn't expected to ever accept. She sent off a quick text. Should she go through with it, or reject him? Was she to be given a new assignment, as this one seemed to be at an end? She couldn't move on if she continued to be tethered to John Watson.

The response-- say yes, and provide weekly updates from this point on-- came as a surprise. Apparently, someone at the "main office" was suspicious. After all this time, Mary was doubtful. 

***

She recognized him as she was heading down the stairs, and turned right back around to gain a bit more composure. This was just too funny. Sherlock Holmes. In the flesh. About to walk right into her dinner date. She took her mobile out to send off a text, but decided against it. After all… if she waited too long, she might miss the show. And it promised to be a good one.

John had finally, _finally_ got around to talking about Sherlock. Still wasn't letting her read the blog, though-- not that she hadn't already read it anyway, before it was blocked. Not that she hadn't had copies, a series of photographs, a full dossier on the two of them. But, as far as John was concerned, she had only glanced at the story in the papers (about the fake genius and his deluded sidekick who still remained loyal to his memory). She decided that she would be appropriately sympathetic about how easily one could be deceived, whenever John eventually brought the matter up. Recently, he had just started to mention it-- claimed Sherlock Holmes was the genuine article. She believed him. She listened to the stories he gradually started to offer up as proof. 

But she never had expected this. To see the man himself stroll into the restaurant, eye John at the table (he was busy studying the menu) , then look around as if struck by some last-minute plan. Surely, he knew John wasn't alone. The table setting made it clear enough. But, rather than wait to confront John for him at his home after dinner, Sherlock was slowly making his way from table to table. It gave her enough time to head downstairs gracefully, not quite able to conceal her grin. But that would be fine. After all, she was getting engaged tonight. And her job was about to get a lot more interesting, too.

She started her descent, only to see Sherlock Holmes at their table... this time wearing glasses, a tie, and....and? What the hell was that? A thin, pencil-drawn mustache. This time, she did actually chuckle right out loud. It looked even more ridiculous than John's, and that was saying something. Ah. The moment. 

She continued to quietly observe from her vantage point, but… there was nothing to observe. Sherlock was standing right there and John was ignoring him. At first, she thought John might have been doing so out of spite, but, upon closer inspection, it was readily apparent that John hadn't seen him at all. Hadn't looked up from his menu. John was entirely too preoccupied to notice! Sherlock left in frustration and Mary caught a glimpse of what must surely be the box which held her engagement ring. She hoped John had been far more observant when she was dropping hints about how much she liked antique styles of jewelry than he was proving himself to be now.

Pausing to pat her hand briefly on John's shoulder, she headed back to her seat.

"Sorry that took so long."

She pretended not to notice as John attempted to palm the ring box.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Me? Fine. I am fine."

Almost time. She smiled sweetly. "Now then, what did you want to ask me?"

"More wine?" He fidgeted a bit with his glass, clearly nervous. 

"No, I'm good with water, thanks." Another one of Jim's "requests" that were not exactly requests. That she remain sober. She couldn't risk more than one and a half and stay fully alert. John was already on his third.

"Right."

"So..." Maybe this wasn't going to happen after all...

"Er, so , Mary. Listen...erm..I know it hasn't been long. I mean, I know we haven't known each other for a long time..."

"Go on..." She smiled again. He could be absolutely adorable sometimes. 

"Yes, I will. As you know, these last couple of years haven't been easy for me, and meeting you..." He stopped, seemed to assess the situation and nodded. "Yeah, meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened."

John glanced down, uncertain, and Mary took the opportunity to quickly survey the restaurant-- wondering where her other mark had gone off to-- when it sort of clicked into place. Yes. Getting his mind off of Sherlock Holmes was the best thing that could have happened to him. He would have dwelt on that in some endless stream of "if only I'd..." if she hadn't have come along. So much in those blogs, between the lines. So much presumably unsaid. She couldn't help but find it ironic that he was moving on, with her, while Holmes was wandering around trying to make some sort of clever entrance. 

"I agree." 

"What?"

Oh. Too strong? It was true though. Anyone could see what a mess he had been without his… partner. As to what variant of the word, she'd find that out soon enough.

"I agree I'm the best thing that could have happened to you."

John laughed.

"Sorry."

"Well, no, that's ...umm.... So, if you'll have me, Mary, could you see your way..umm..."

This was rapidly headed past charming and into ridiculous. 

"Sir, I think you'll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking..."

Speaking of ridiculous. 

Mary shielded her face to stifle her laughter, covering it all up under the pretense of the "waiter’s” poor timing. 

"Eet 'as all ze qualities of ze old, with some of ze colour of ze new...."

Mary grabbed her chair under the table… a sort of physical manifestation of the mental bracing she was doing. John hadn't known he was alive. She was sure of it. And to come waltzing back, well, there was simply no way this would end well. If she knew John at all. Which...well...surely she did well enough. How could he just....

"No, sorry, not now, please." John waved the waiter away.

She beamed-- her competitive streak getting the best of her for a moment. John would not be distracted from this. She was… she was the center of his life. It felt remarkably good. Her smile was genuine.

Sherlock-the-waiter continued on. "Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers..." Oh no. He's not going to try this later, is he? "Suddenly one ees aware of staring into ze face of...an old friend." 

"No, look, seriously, could you just...."

And there it was. 

John looked up to see Sherlock removing the glasses, still wearing a mustache that must have been drawn in with a marker of some kind…. no… no it's... eyeliner? And Mary decided she wouldn't dare recognise the man who she has studied for the past two years. She would get her bearings. She would need to know how he ticks. So far she was unimpressed. The great detective was a child. Attention-starved, with a pawky sense of humour, and more than a tad self-important. And he was about to do something remarkably stupid.

John froze in shock, and she was almost safe to make an obvious observation and drop the charade, but apparently not before Sherlock tried one more time to say something clever.

"Interesting thing, a tuxedo. It lends distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters."

"John? John, what is it? What's wrong?" As if it wasn't obvious. Mary played it as if it were slowly dawning on her, who this could be. The more the humor was misplaced the more he clung to it… dismissing each of her comments with even more obnoxious quips. _Yes, you aren't quite God, are you, even though you seem to act like one._ Mary turned back toward John again, watching him work himself into a state where just one more word would set him off, and she was positive Sherlock would provide it. And her assessment changed from a man without a clue, to a man wanting to take on whatever John would dish out. She had seen this play out over the years, and she wondered if he truly knew just what that would amount to.

And now he's insulting that hideous mustache and...yes. It didn't take long at all before John knocked him to the floor. So much for the lovely engagement dinner. She'd have to wait a bit longer on that. Shame she didn't at least get a good look at the ring. She'd grab it out of his coat pocket on the sly when they got home.

The restaurant manager had kicked them out, of course, and they’d wandered down the road, John setting an admirable pace, given his short strides. When they got into the next eatery, Mary was feeling pretty hungry. Thirteen possibilities. Japanese wrestling. Still trying for the Grand Adventure angle, even though John wasn't a part of this particular Grand Adventure this time. 

Yes. If John hadn't called him remarkably thick, Mary wasn't entirely sure she could keep her tongue any longer. Mycroft's idea? That is interesting. Perhaps she should show she could follow along with the best of them? Her comment that he'd need a confidante was well-received. No sooner had she said it than it occurred to her she should probably dial it back down. She shouldn't know such things, should she? Well, maybe she would, maybe she didn't have to hide her intelligence. Maybe it would work in her favor. Clearly Sherlock admired complexity. She could do that. She could be interesting. Helpful. 

When the next battle came, she had already decided. She would talk him round. And she would let John know just how much she liked his not-dead friend. And she would watch both of them.  
And up her fee.  
***

She'd encouraged John to go patch things up with Sherlock or at least given him a chance. Clearly, they needed an adventure together. She hadn't heard from him all afternoon and was wondering just what they might be up to when she got the text.

She saw the skip code, figured it out easily enough, but she couldn't rush down to St James the Less. How would she justify showing up there? Surely, no one wanted to actually hurt John. What would be the point? If they wanted to go after her, they'd go after her. Why waste time with anyone else? This must be designed to get her to break her character. To lose her carefully crafted cover. Well, it wouldn't work. She'd do something else. She'd... go to Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't more than a few minutes away. He'd see the code. He'd save John. And no one would be the wiser. Maybe this would help patch things up between the two of them. A win-win. 

Hopping on the back of a commandeered motorbike, checking for texts and holding them out for Sherlock to read as they dodged through traffic and raced down staircases...it was exhilarating, and… a bit nerve-wracking. What if someone wasn't testing her commitment to her role, but was actually testing her allegiance to John? Should she have come by herself right away? She was still trying to puzzle it out when they arrived at the bonfire and Sherlock tore his way through the flames. She followed Sherlock's lead...shouting John's name as he tossed aside flaming timber.

John was safe. John was safe, and the last thing he remembered was standing outside Sherlock's doorstep. 

No idea who it was... no memory of anything except waking up surrounded by smoke and noise and darkness. She pressed him for answers, and he said he thought he remembered someone coming up behind him… or was it front of him and then turned around? A man. A man taller than him. Fat lot of good that was-- that narrowed it down to three quarters of London. She smiled and kissed him. Utterly useless.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was endlessly entertaining. She could see why John liked him. But now that the headlines had switched from 'Suicide of Fake Genius' to 'Fake Suicide of Genius' , _\-- hah...genius... what he doesn't know could fill a set of encylopaedia...and so easy to read, too--_ Mary grew agitated. He'd been back nearly a month. What was she supposed to watch for now? What was her purpose? Maybe she was done. Maybe she could stop this game after all.

With her assignment over, she could turn her attention back to solving her Michael Waters problem... but for the time being, she was enjoying where she found herself: on the edge of adventure and excitement. Just so long as she didn't let on she knew more codes than Sherlock did. But that was all part of the fun. And the detective and his assistant were both amusingly clueless. Though John was avoiding Sherlock even more lately...enough to almost have given up on the sidekick role entirely.

Of course she was still keeping an eye on Sherlock as he was busy piddling about with toy trains and poking around skeletons in suits with little Miss Molly Hooper. It didn't much matter, except John was getting progressively more restless and agitated. And getting difficult to live with. She could hold her own, but she'd already played the angry boyfriend game before. Fights, make-up sex-- been there and done that, not interested anymore. John needed adventure, and so did she. She felt herself strangled by routine, and knew herself well enough to have long ago acknowledged her tendency to create problems-- just to give herself something to do. 

Maybe she'd tell him all about Cath and her work. Maybe they'd do it together, she and John. What a team they would make! But he was just so... so, _judgmental_ about things. He wouldn't approve of her present, never mind her past-- unless, of course, she was sufficiently repentant. The only problem was, she wasn't. Some people needed to die-- it was that simple. And the "good" people? Well, they were simply the ones who hid things the best, weren't they? No one was good in this world-- no one. No one was innocent. She didn't need his bloody forgiveness and redemption. No. John wouldn't ever see it her way. She sighed. Why do avenging angels so seldom get the credit they deserve?

She'd get the balance right eventually. Enough closeness to feel safe, enough freedom not to feel imprisoned. The challenge of any relationship.

***

Sherlock and John had gone off on a case together. Finally. And she had used the time to pay Cath a visit.

John came home later than she had expected, looking simultaneously agitated and relieved. He was grinning and muttering something about someone being a cock, (that would have to have been Sherlock) and barely acknowledged her existence before opening up his laptop and typing away.

Ten minutes later, she received a text.

**You're gonna lose that boy. (Yes, yes, you're gonna lose that boy) You're gonna lose...that boy. You're gonna loooooose...thaat...boy.**

_Wonderful. So Jim's a Beatles fan._

She nearly slammed the mobile down in her rage, but settled instead on scanning her memory for an appropriate song to reply with. She could think of nothing fitting, and that didn't help matters. 

Mary _wasn't_ going to lose John. She was doing just _fine_. He was here with her, typing away in _their_ home. If his mind was elsewhere, since Sherlock came back, well... well _his body_ wasn't. He was here. _Right_ here. And he'd _stay_ here. Out of duty. Out of loyalty to her. They were _engaged_. The proposal had been interrupted. The wedding had been postponed. But, things happen. It didn't mean she was losing. She will not lose.

She opted for a simpler reply. **He's here. And he's staying here.-M**

**Look out, here comes tomorrow. That's when he'll have to choose. I'm sure you're sweet, Mary. I'm sure your lips are like strawberry pie. But he can't have both of you. Don't know what to do?**

**Fuck off. I'm getting married. And The Monkees don't deserve to be quoted. They didn't even play their own fucking instruments or write their own songs.-M**

**Didn't need to. They were actors first. They just needed to fool the right people until they could play well enough to perform live. It was all about buying themselves extra time. What more, Mary, can you do...To prove his love is truly yours?**

 

**He's staying. I think I just might be pregnant.-M**

 

**Hmmmm. I thought you were looking a bit puffy. Must be all that water retention. Congratulations!**

She wasn't, of course, but she could be...for just long enough to make John reassess his priorities. Then she'd have a "miscarriage", and he would be there... he'd _have_ to be there. He'd ease her through the grief. Help her recover. It would bring him back to her. And while John was busy doing that, she'd find a case for Sherlock to take alone. A very dangerous one. Criminals out for revenge. She'd have to find some way to get him out of her life. Or at least make him a lot less fun to be around. An injury? Some rehabilitation time?

And here she had been, trying to bring them back together. Stupid, stupid, STUPID!


	5. Chapter 5

Swans... or the opera house?

Ugh, who cared? A few seconds at most before they were unwrapped and people wiped grease off their mouths with them. Sherlock cared, though. Obsessively. The venue was his idea. The colour scheme for the bridesmaids. He had interrogated every guest. Now it was the stupid napkins. 

That most of her guest list didn't care for her very much was hardly surprising...when your friends consist mostly of people who only know you as far back as the last time you switched identities, you can't afford to be too choosey. The petrol station comment was funny, though. Not because it was unexpected, but because that was an invitation she had mailed to herself. The retaining saliva part admittedly caught her off guard, and she wasn't sure exactly how it applied to her sending herself the fake RSVP. Oh well. Sherlock was enough on her side to tell her about what she knew had been a ridiculously cheap card instead of keeping that fact private-- although she strongly suspected it was only because he liked to show off. That knowledge might come in handy. She wanted to test just how observant Sherlock actually was before deciding exactly who to invite to the wedding.

Not that Mary didn't have other, closer, friends, but they were in the assassination business. If Sherlock were to figure out that half of her side of the church had ties to the criminal underworld...well... that would be difficult to explain away. Even her Maid of Honour must be viewed with suspicion; no one worked for Magnussen without some sort of a past, of course. Still, getting to know Janine had been crucial. She needed some way to keep tabs on her new best friend's boss. What Mary hadn't been expecting was for Janine to have figured her out first.

Janine must have been rummaging around in Magnussen's files and recognized her. "I know who you are," she had said when Mary quite literally, and deliberately, bumped into her at her gym. Of course she hadn't admitted it... until Janine started outlining all the jobs Mary had done: for the CIA, for Jim, for Cath. She had almost, rather impulsively, created a vacancy for Magnussen for a PA. 

Janine had unknowingly spared herself by quickly mentioning just how much she hated him-- just as much as Mary did. My god, he would flick her open eye and she would _let him_! There is no way that poor excuse for a human being would have stayed alive if he'd tried that on _her._ Together, they began to hatch a plan to take Magnussen down. So what, if their friendship had developed based entirely on ridding the world of the same man? That didn't make it any less real. In fact, in many ways, it was the closest friendship she had ever had. They didn't lie to each other. It was beautiful. Janine was sharp and cautious. She knew Sherlock wouldn't spot anything unusual in Janine, apart from her poor judgment in employers. Especially if she talked a lot about sex. That topic seemed awkward enough to always keep him at bay. That knowledge might come in handy later, too.

David, however, was a problem.

David was an ex, yes. Maybe that might be all Sherlock would read, and anything else would naturally fall under that banner. But David was _also_ heavily involved in CIA operations, and developed disguises-- brilliantly. David would help her get pregnant. Tell her just how to recreate that special "glow". She chuckled to herself. That was just the sort of thing  
David had wanted once. To get her pregnant. Inviting him was a risk, but it was essential. After Sherlock "interviewed" him, David said he had come off like a father intimidating his daughter's date. With a touch of the psychotic thrown in for good measure. So, Sherlock was interested in preserving the marriage from outside influences. Affairs. How telling. This was just one of the reasons why Sherlock was such an easy read. She remembered the list John wrote on his blog about the things Sherlock was piss-poor at, and added 'knowledge of psychology-none' to it. He only wanted the wedding to be perfect because he truly longed to wreck it.

If she were to have an affair, it wouldn't be with David. He fell neatly into the continually expanding category of 'men who want to control me by protecting me'. One of her few long-time friends, David had known all along she did dangerous work. He tried to get her to leave the life, settle down, put it all behind her. She had refused. After she started working for less respectable clientele-- well, less respectable to others at least, since she never considered the CIA honorable simply because of government ties... and in her experience many criminals were, in fact, far more noble-- she had told him there was no way out alive. That was quite far from the truth. She simply hadn't _wanted_ out.

She had confided in him about her ties to Michael Waters's younger son, and cried on his shoulder a few times about how she and John were having problems. They weren't. Not really. But a man is more willing to help you if they feel they are rescuing you. She may need the help down the road. _So what_ if she portrayed John as bit unstable, a returning soldier with adjustment issues who occasionally took it out on his girlfriend? 

_"John is just insecure. He will be better once we are married, David. He doesn't mean to be so...angry."_

She stopped short of actually saying "violent"--a real victim would hesitate there-- and let the implication fill the empty spaces of their conversations. He always hung around after that false confession. At a safe distance. It had been one of her best decisions; she would need him now.

 

"Ooh, hang on. I’m buzzing. Hello? Oh, hi, Beth! Yeah, yeah, don’t see why not."

Mary caught John glancing sheepishly at Sherlock as he followed her to the kitchen. "Actually, if that’s Beth, it’s probably for me too. Hang on." John smiled at her and then dropped his gaze and whispered, "He knows we don’t have a friend called Beth. He’s gonna figure out that it’s code."

_Oh God, John. Of course he knows it's code. Of course he knows we are talking about him. Of course he's sitting there, looking lost, so I can tell you to go rescue him with a case. And you know what, Sherlock Holmes? Surprise! That's what I'm going to do. Send you two off together. Because I'm not threatened at all, right? And you will think I want to help poor, lonely Sherlock who may just be losing his best friend to marriage, and Sherlock will think he's helping poor boring John, losing his adventurous purpose. And I am ever the innocent, trustworthy helper to you both._

"Er, we’re just going to ... I need, um, Sherlock to help me choose some, er--"

"Socks." 

"Ties."

The overlap would have been hilarious if it wasn't so pathetic. _Clearly, neither of them have any idea how to fool someone._ It almost makes her suspicious, until she looks down again at the twenty-odd napkin facsimiles of the Sydney Opera House. _No. He's just that pathetic._ And John never could lie, or not be taken in by them. It was one of the things that made this whole situation all too easy.

"Why don’t we go with socks?"

"Yeah."

"I mean, you’ve got to get the right ones."

"Exactly! To go with my--"

"Tie!"

"Outfit!"

_Yeah. Fucking brilliant teamwork in evidence._

"That’ll take a while, right?" _Please..._

A thumbs up to both of them -- simultaneously, even-- and they are finally gone. Time to meet Janine at the office. Janine said she could do it, if there was someone else there to pin it on. Said a PA was "a bit too much like the butler". Mary would scope out a way to get into the building. Or maybe Janine could just, buzz her in? Could all be so much easier than she thought. She was headed out the door when she got a rather unexpected text from Magnussen himself. 

**Oh, it is so unfortunate, the way family problems can ruin a wedding. I wonder if you'd care to talk about it.**

Magnussen knew about her entanglement with the Waters family, then. Okay. 

**Since it would be inappropriate for me come to the bridal shower, I thought maybe you'd come here. To chat. I'd like to offer you a gift as well.**

**What makes you think I won't kill you on the spot?** , she replied. 

**Because my security system would record your having done so, and if I'm dead, who would erase the tapes?**

She might not even need Janine at this rate. She was being given an invitation. She could just waltz right in. Cameras. She would still need to know where they were, disable them somehow. But, her instincts were chaffing at the back of her mind; she suspected a bluff. Magnussen's private office might just be truly private. Doubtful anyone looked at _those_ recordings...she knew Magnussen's reputation. There were some goings on even Magnussen wouldn't want taped for posterity. 

A reason for being there. Now all she needed was someone else there who didn't have one.


	6. Chapter 6

CAM Global News was impressive enough, but, you've seen one minimalist, ultramodern office, you've seen them all. It still reminded her of IKEA. Maybe there was a commissary somewhere with meatballs.

"I give you the gift of information. It is valuable to... know...things." Magnussen adjusted his glasses slightly. "I know things about your husband, Mrs Watson."

She laughed. "And you think I don't? So, you've been watching John, too? Honestly, I have no idea why everyone is so interested in John. John does nothing. Even his patients are boring."

"Quite right. John is not the interesting one. It is, rather, the man John is attached to... at the hip, is this the expression? Forgive me if I have it wrong. You see, idioms are difficult. Attached at the hip is right, yes?" He smiled and feigned innocence.

"Your innuendo is nothing new to me. If this is all you have, I don't think we have much to discuss. You put him in that fire, didn't you? To test me?"

"Of course not. I'd never do that." The smile was chilling, though Mary took it in stride. "Not to test _you_. You are committed to your role, as always." He raised his drink to his lips. "It was to test Sherlock Holmes."

"Again... old news."

"And this is of no consequence to you... your husband's proclivities? How very progressive."

She felt a surge of possessiveness, and barely refrained from telling him that she was pregnant. Jim may very well have already. Instead, she simply thought it... hard... and looked back at him with an all-knowing smile. If Jim had said anything, it would be confirmation enough. Of course he and Jim were hardly what one would call friends. They had actively disliked each other for many years, which made this meeting especially dangerous. But, then again, she liked dangerous.

"That is one thing about the Danes, Mrs Watson. We have an excellent reputation for non-discrimination. And... maternity leave. We have, some would say, the world's finest employment benefits."

"That's not what my Maid-of-Honour says."

"Your Maid-of-Honour is free to quit my employ at any time, of course."

"Are you making me an offer?"

"You are a valuable asset. You see, _you_ are the first link in the chain. Because you have no pressure point. There is no one you feel deeply connected to who might influence your behavior. You are Ground Zero. However, John Watson cares about you. And Sherlock Holmes cares about him. And Mycroft Holmes, cares about Sherlock. As you have no person of influence, I will offer you something else. I will make someone go away. The Waters Family."

"What do you want?"

"Something rather mutually beneficial. To take Sherlock Holmes out of the equation for a while. Temporarily? Permanently? Your choice. But I do need some information first. Oh, and do what you wish with John Watson. He's expendable."

"John Watson is my husband."

"Of course."

"And the father of my child."

Magnussen dragged the word out slowly. "Really? Congratulations." He raised his glass in a toast. "Well. Let's just say your current employer and I are both after the same item. Competition raises prices. Tell me his weaknesses and I'll make it worth your while. Of course, Miss Hawkins will provide me with information as well. Best man. Maid-of-Honour. But I have a strong suspicion you will be able to provide far greater detail."

Mary smirked. He wants information on Sherlock? She could find out absolutely _anything_.

"I know you intend to break into my offices and do me harm. When the time comes... don't. I can make it worth your while not to. We aren't enemies, you and I. I have nothing on you. You're much too good for that." She smiled this time. _That I am._ Nothing concrete. So many targets and never a shred of evidence of her involvement.

"So if I don't kill you, you will kill Waters?"

"Or something very much like that."

It was a lot of ties to cut all at once, but once it was done....

"What do you want to know?"

He paused and his smile broadened. "Everything." Again, easier than anyone would ever imagine. "But there is a little something else I need."

Mary paused. "My not shooting you should be _all_ you need."

"I need him to protect you. I need Sherlock Holmes to know you've something to hide."

"You are seriously suggesting I blow my cover to the self-proclaimed 'World's Only Consulting Detective', just for your own little secret plan?"

"Of course not. Perhaps I have something minor on you. Or, someone you care--" he corrected himself. "A past issue that is irksome. Certainly not your current situation. Or, you could simply be-- helping Janine. You might do something like that, yes? _Help Janine_?"

Mary was getting tired of his style. The man knew everything, but he never just came out and said it. She missed Americans sometimes. Their directness. They weren't always proving their intellectual prowess in some ridiculous pissing contest of superior brainpower.

"Mr Holmes will come. I have someone I am currently doing business with who is rather illustrious, and far more stubborn than is reasonable for one in her situation. You would think a former gymnast would be more... flexible." Mary fought the urge to cringe. Everything the man said was disgusting. "To help his client, he will come here. Janine will know when he does. She will be all over him, as they say. And so, _I_ will know when he does. And I want you to already be here. I want him to rescue you. What happens after that is entirely up to you."

"I don't need to be rescued."

"I didn't say you needed to be rescued. I said that I _wanted him to rescue you_. There is a _very_... _big_... difference."

 

***

Back at the clinic, she headed to a small storage closet off the reception area to think.

She was supposed to go there to shoot Magnussen; that's what she and Janine had planned. Now Sherlock and John would be there... could take the fall. Not for long, though-- they would be acquitted eventually, once the ballistics tests were run. She'd be gone, gone, gone by then. But this new proposition was quite the change of plans. She'd have to turn her back on Janine. Well, she would still need to get Sherlock and John into the building using her influence-- but then she would have to let Sherlock do his superiority thing and hightail it out of there, leaving Magnussen unharmed. Sherlock would save her from herself. Talk her out of it. What a horrible idea.

With the jury still out on whether aborting her plans to shoot Magnussen would be a stroke of luck or a crying shame, Mary rifled through some files labeled "Vaccine Exemption Forms" and retrieved the dossier that Jim had provided, one more time. It had been a while, and she had used it to focus primarily on John at the time. This time, she paid more attention to the information about Sherlock. Lots of notes from Irene Adler; she had tried to seduce him. Mary laughed out loud. If Jim had wanted _that_ , he should have tried it himself. He had a far better chance than this Adler woman. Oh... looks like he _did try_ \-- and failed spectacularly. Well... she had a better chance than either of them, if she simply used John as a go-between. He was already besotted. They both were. It wouldn't take much to push them over the friendship line. Not much information to be gained from that, though. Why the hell would anyone care so goddamn much about Sherlock Holmes's sex life? But both Jim and Irene had tried. And she knew a sleazeball like Magnussen was always interested in that sort of thing. Maybe there was something in it after all. She slipped the file back and left the cabinet unlocked, as usual. A locked cabinet only bred suspicion.

An hour later, and she found that some part of her brain was still fixated on sex with John and Sherlock. Not the sex itself... just, setting it all up and watching it come about. The whole situation inspired some dark humour. _Better make sure the only one fucking me is John. Not exactly a paternity issue I want to get in the middle of when I tell him I'm pregnant._

And it would be nice to get some action in before she would have to make that announcement, and then miscarry, and then be appropriately depressed for however long one would be depressed about that sort of thing. There would be no sex happening at that point-- not for a while. The idea started becoming more appealing. And fun. By the time the next patient came in, there was no other possible conclusion to draw. Mary wanted Sherlock, John and her together.

***  
She started out by discussing her past relationships and whether it was technically bad form to invite one's exes to a wedding. Then she beamed. "Of course, I couldn't see having the wedding at all without Sherlock anyway, so, don't you worry about that." She planted a kiss on John's cheek.

"I-- I told you we never--"

"Oh, you were--? Really, John? I thought you were just _saying_ that because you thought it might make a difference to me, since he would still be such a big part of our lives. I didn't think you really meant you never-- you never did? Not even a start at it?"

"Not even a start at it, no."

"Did you...ever _want_ to? Be honest, John! I slept with my flatmate when I was at Uni. It's not like it's a big deal. If you, _fancy_ someone, and you live with them, and you see them in _all sorts_ of states of undress-- and sometimes you know they are just lying in bed in the next room... _you_ know..." 

"I _wouldn't_ know."

"John...."

"Look, maybe I thought about it. You know I had some... experiences... before. I'm not ashamed about it. But... Sherlock is not the type of person who would ever do something like that."

"Like what? Like sex? Who wouldn't do something like sex?"

"It's not his thing. I know him pretty well, for a while now. He, doesn't date. He doesn't even.... If I even were to have let myself be interested," John cringed at how awkward the words sounded, "I'd have just been setting myself up for disappointment."

"But if he _was_ interested, " she pulled her knees up to her chest, looking like a teenager at a sleepover, "if he _is_ interested, you'd say yes?"

"I'm committed to you, and no one else. I take that very seriously."

"But what if I wanted to?"

John hesitated. "Wanted to what?"

"Wanted to do something with the three of us? What if I wanted to, and he wanted to. Then you'd want to too, right?" She lowered her head and batted her lashes just a bit.

"Yeah, fine. I'd do it too, if everyone wanted to. Sure." John seemed pretty confident he could bet it never came to that. He didn't know that Mary had never lost a bet. The trick was in only taking the ones you knew you could win. Or that the other person really wanted to lose.

"Theoretically," John added.

Mary smiled. Her wedding was days away and everything was falling into place.


	7. Chapter 7

"So that’s him. Major Sholto."

"Uh huh."

"If they’re such good friends, why does he barely even mention him?" 

_Unreal._ "He mentions him all the time to me. He never shuts up about him."

"About him?"

"Mmm hmm." _Time to drop some more hints for the dear detective._ "Ugh. I chose this wine. It’s bloody awful."

"Yes, but it’s definitely him that he talks about?"

"Mmm hmm."

"I’ve never even heard him say his name."

"Well, he’s almost a recluse, you know, since...."

"Yes."

"I didn’t think he’d show up at all. John says he’s the most unsociable man he’s ever met." 

"He is? _He’s_ the most unsociable?"

"Mmm." 

If it wasn't so hilarious, mocking him like this, she would have been even more frustrated he wasn't commenting on any of her carefully-thought-out clues. He said nothing about her having to let the dress out, about her feeling sick this morning, about her change in taste perception. Maybe Sherlock just knew absolutely nothing about pregnancy. Maybe she would just have to tell John herself later. Still, it _would_ play better if Sherlock was the one to break the news. Not that John would really be suspicious-- especially since this would last only a month at most-- but it was much more fun this way. Of course Sherlock would have to think about something besides himself tonight, and he just wouldn't. Git.

"Ah, that’s why he’s bouncing round him like a puppy."

She hugged his arm. "Oh, Sherlock! Neither of us were the first, you know." It really _was_ fun. She watched for how he took that little bit of ambiguity laced with innuendo. In stride. Maybe even a little bit hurt? Yes. Just a little bit hurt. He looked so sweet when he was hurt. _Because you weren't even on the list, were you, Sherlock? Not really. But you want to be. Well, that's okay. I want you to be, too._ She smiled at the thought.

"Stop smiling."

"It’s my wedding day!"

 _One more sip for the benefit of the blind, self-centered detective, and then it's on to the food. I'll just peck at it._ She took another taste and made a face again. The wine was actually pretty damn good, though.

***  
All was going well until the telegrams. 

"Mary-- lots of love... _poppet_. Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from CAM.” 

Fuck. 

“Wish your family could have seen this.” 

Fucking bastard. Just a friendly reminder that she was working for him now. Poppet indeed. The 'family' jab was also uncalled for. As if Michael Waters needed to be here to know all about it. 

The disastrous telegrams ended up as a sort of prelude for what was yet to come. Sherlock's speech.

"A wedding, in my considered opinion, is nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irritating and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world.” 

But somehow he managed to make it work. To express how very much John meant to him without crossing any lines. _Well done, Sherlock._ That is, until he went into another one of his fugue states, dropped the champagne flute, and the whole speech turned into a disjointed and odd disaster. 

And apparently, Sherlock could be in his memory palace thing and still keep right on functioning... sort of straddling the line between both worlds. When he snapped out of it, he urgently whispered "Vatican cameos" to John and was off like a shot, running out of the reception hall with John close on his heels, barely leaving him time to explain the code words meant something was up. Well, clearly they did; the shift in behavior certainly had to have some sort of justification. Of course, she followed as well. 

By the time she caught up, Sherlock was struggling to remember the major's room number. _Well, at least one of us has been paying attention._ But if this was to go right, Sherlock needed to be the hero again. Needed to solve it when it counted. She hoped he could do it-- and he did. It even earned her a kiss on the forehead for her efforts.

***

Okay, admittedly a less _public_ announcement of her pregnancy would have been more appropriate, but at least he finally noticed. And the guests probably weren't even paying attention, anyway. Mary acted shocked, and watched as John's body language told her Sherlock had still been very much on his mind, while Sherlock's told her he had accepted his new status beneath wife and future child. She liked it this way. It felt right. Why had she wanted to bring the three of them together anyway? What had been the purpose again? To prove that she could. Oh. Well, looking at Sherlock now, it was all too obvious she _could_ \-- like shooting fish in a barrel. Good to keep that colloquialism unspoken. John was backing away too, making jokes about dancing behind closed curtains. That's when Sherlock told them to dance, and it felt like an order to just get it over with already. _Rip off the damn band-aid. Plaster! Plaster._

"Well, we can't all three dance, there are limits," John joked. And Sherlock's reply was, "Yes, there are." 

_Yes. Limits. That's even better. There will be limits, and I will define them._

***

Mary and John went on their honeymoon immediately after the wedding. John checked his blog far too often, but Mary didn't mind, since it meant she could spend an equal amount of time checking her email and texts. Reassuring Jim all was well. Getting updates from Magnussen on when he would strike out against her enemies. Apparently some of the Waters family  
was captured during a bank robbery, but not all of them. Magnussen suggested patience. She had said she'd wait a month. She walked over and put her arm around John's shoulder, taking the opportunity to examine his blog posts. "I think he makes a good point. This holiday could use some more sex..." 

"You feeling okay?"

"The morning sickness seems to have passed. I'm not showing yet, am I? My dress was tight, but I don't want to get all fat!"

"Pregnant is not fat! Pregnant is pregnant. Not another word about how much you show and when, okay? You look stunning."

Mary hopped up on the bed. "Come over here and say that again," she teased, her voice full of mischief.

***  
They returned from the trip and had a few uneventful weeks at home. Sherlock was avoiding John, and John was avoiding Sherlock. It seemed so childish, as if each was simply waiting for the other to call. John was getting restless. The morning Kate came looking for Isaac, John had assumed the request was for help from Sherlock and was unnecessarily grumpy about it, until he finally realised he could just go help her himself. Then he switched into hero mode. It was nice to see him like this, so confident of his abilities-- it was even a tiny bit sexy. She didn't much like him wandering off though, so she managed to tag along-- to drive the car. 

When Isaac staggered to the car without John, she knew something was very wrong. Isaac said he was still inside with... oh. Of all the drug dens in all of London.... Well, this might end things once and for all. John was hardly the type to hang around with addicts. His sister had driven the last bit of what weaker souls would have referred to as compassion out of him.

_Yes. A drug test. Good. Oh, he's most definitely high. But John will have his proof._

_For a case? Oh, that's nerve. For a case. Well. Maybe it is. I'd do it for a job._

She had _expected_ Sherlock to try his hand at deflecting, but-- shirts packed. She hadn't anticipated that. _Shirts packed_? He made it sound as if he was ready to leave. He was so _not_ ready to leave. This wasn't funny anymore.

Mary resented being left to deal with another crackhead and his stupid wrist sprain when she should have been observing this conversation; she needed to know if John was going to play saviour to Sherlock-- rescue his poor friend with the "illness" of addiction. Would he do everything for him, or realise someone like that only drags you down? Harry should have taught him that much. Mary tried her best to listen without appearing to. She might just end up saddled with John Watson and his pathetic druggie friend. She itched to get out. Just a simple job. Maybe Cath could find someone with an abusive husband who needed a bit of her own special kind of assistance. That would cheer her up. Avenging angels were always needed.


	8. Chapter 8

Magnussen was sniveling away, and doing a good job at it. Maybe it helped that he knew she just might change her mind and shoot him anyway.

Janine had let Sherlock in, as planned. Whatever Janine had orchestrated, Mary was sure Sherlock would be thinking it was entirely due to his own brilliance. As good as she was though, she wouldn't be expecting the blow to the back of the head. Oh well. She was tough. _Can't risk her seeing Magnussen without his head ending up in tiny pieces all over that lovely, high-end carpet._

Mary kicked the door open a tiny bit more while Magnussen continued to plead. "He ... your lovely husband, upright, honourable. So English. What-- what would he say to you now? Nej! Nej!"

_Ah, reverting to Danish. Nice touch._

"You’re... you’re doing this to protect him from the truth, but is this protection he would want?" 

_I'm doing this to protect me from the people who want me dead, and I'll give you a month to keep your end up._

Her eyes were fixed on Magnussen, silently pleading for his life. Mary knew who was on his way to the office, following the echoing trails of conversation through the empty building, and she kept her cool when she finally heard Sherlock speak. "Additionally, if you’re going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume... Lady Smallwood."

"Sorry. Who? That’s... not... Lady Smallwood, Mr Holmes."

She turned to face him. "Is John here? Is John with you?" John would have a weapon. He always had a weapon when they were out on a case like this.

"He’s, um.... He...he’s downstairs."

Magnussen chose to pull the focus back to him at that moment. "So, what do you do now? Kill us both?"

"Mary, whatever he’s got on you, let me help." Sherlock started to advance. Enough of this. John and Sherlock were both there. She could still just shoot Magnussen in the face and go. Nothing was stopping her from it. Of course, if she played Magnussen's game-- allowed herself to be talked out of it-- she would be... obligated... to Magnussen for taking down the remaining Waters members. It sounded terribly wrong. She knew Magnussen was getting something out of this staged assault, but she wasn't sure what. It was all over her head. She suddenly felt stupid. Incredibly stupid and out of her league. It made her anxious. She wanted to bolt, but stood her ground instead. Doubled down.

"Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step, I swear I will kill you."

He smiled. Sherlock Holmes fucking smiled that smarmy little smile and shook his head. "No, Mrs Watson. You won’t."

_You don't... no you **do not** fucking tell me... what **I'm** going to do, **Mrs Watson!**_ She pulled the trigger. She heard herself saying sorry. And maybe she was. Maybe she was sorry she couldn't seem to get out of this business. Do something else. Maybe she was sorry her first instinct would always be to shoot. But she had given him fair warning. And he had been the patronizing bastard he always was. Well, it was a body shot. He had a chance. Not a particularly good one, but a chance nonetheless. 

She thought she heard, "Mary?", as she knocked Magnussen unconscious and left. 

_****_

Trying to get to the hospital room before John had been a difficult task. She had gotten extremely lucky, and had managed to peer in first, quickly, while John was talking to the attending physician. He was still unconscious. Good. She calmly walked back to John. They almost lost him right on the table, and they weren't at all confident he would pull through. John seemed to have a stubborn sort of tenacity about it. That he _had_ to make it. That he couldn't lose him again. As if that had any bearing on it whatsoever. She smiled benignly and hugged him and planned for what she'd do if Sherlock did, in fact, wake up. She'd suggested John go home and rest, but he refused. Said he'd stay there until he knew he was out of danger. _I guess that means I stay too._

This was a big deal. It required more than just a quick series of texts to resolve. It hadn't exactly been a well-thought-out plan, risking his life, playing the odds. She hadn't set up John like she had intended. Nor had she played Magnussen's game and had Sherlock convince her to go back on the straight-and-narrow. It was all a disaster. 

The baby she claimed to be carrying would be something else entirely now. It would be her protection. If Sherlock identified her, it would keep her safe enough, for the time being. Then maybe she could just... what? Leave. Say she needed space to figure things out? But why? "Confess" it wasn't John's? Of course, if Sherlock was dead that would be easiest. But she was seldom that lucky. Her brain spun. Maybe she could just keep him quiet? She could threaten him. Could threaten John, too. Not to John directly. That might backfire. Could... could wait until Magnussen kept his end of the bargain and then she would disappear again for good. This wasn't her forte-- planning. She relied on people like Jim for that. But Jim would be furious at her now, if he was even the real goddamn Jim. 

She could convince John they watch him in shifts. That way, she could get some alone time with Sherlock. She reasoned that there might very well be some kind of camera system in his room, so she'd have to be subtle. She was a nurse. She could do that. She'd have a perfectly legitimate reason for checking his tubing, connections, anything, really. So long as she didn't do something as obvious as sticking a pillow over his face, it'd be fine. Not exactly her favorite way to do things, of course, but needs must. She was set to gather a few supplies for the task when she realised she was being impulsive. Perhaps she should think this through. If Sherlock was gone, John would be a fucking mess again. Even worse than when she met him, and God knows that was bad. And if he lived. Well. He surely would keep in line, wouldn't he? Maybe even help her out with a few loose ends, once she'd established herself as a force to be reckoned with. 

She'd leave it to fate. 

She headed downstairs, about to grab coffee and some sort of food, when John texted her to hurry back. She sprinted up to meet him. 

"Mary..." 

"Hey." 

John looked as if the sun had just come out. "He’s only bloody woken up! He’s pulled through." 

"Really?! Seriously?" 

"Oh, _you_ , Mrs Watson...." _What? What?!_ "You're in big trouble." 

She frowned. "Really? Why?" 

"His first word when he woke up? 'Mary'!" 

She laughed, relieved. John joined in. _He thinks, what? That Sherlock is dreaming of me, the way John dreams of him._ She hugged John tightly, as she thought about her next move. He would be too groggy to say anything that made much sense, but she'd better hurry. He would still understand things said to him, even if he could barely speak. 

"John, you've been up all night. He's pulled through. You need to eat something. Go. Take care of yourself. I'll stay with him." 

"I don't want to be..." 

"Just enough time to grab a sandwich. He's not up for conversation yet. This way you will be ready when he is." 

"Yes. Yes, okay. Yes." 

_****_

"You don’t tell him." 

Sherlock struggled to open his eyes. 

She sang it this time... softly... as if to a child. "Sherrrrrlock? You don’t tell John." 

She leaned forward and whispered "Look at me... and tell me you’re not gonna tell him." 

He wasn't able to respond, but she felt confident her message was getting through on some level. That's when she heard her mobile beep. A bit early for John; he couldn't have even made it to the commissary yet. She let out an exasperated sigh and looked down at her phone. 

**Mr Holmes and I require a bit of private time. I'm sure you understand. I won't be but a moment.**

**He's not quite responsive yet** , she replied. 

**I am aware of his current condition.**

Mary left. 


	9. Chapter 9

Mary had convinced John to come back home and at least shower and change his clothes. She had fallen asleep rather quickly, so she wasn't sure if he had actually stayed the night or went back to the hospital to continue his vigil-- visiting hours be damned. Yes, he was also Sherlock's physician, as well as friend, and had full access as such, but she thought he was rather exploiting the fact. She groaned and rolled over. What was it that had awakened her? Oh. The mobile. The mobile was ringing. _Should answer that._

John's voice, tightly controlled. "He had his morning check-up as usual. They said he was much more alert, and they were even tapering down the morphine to make the switch to Tramadol. I went down to meet Greg in the lobby, and when I came back, Sherlock was gone. Mrs Hudson says he's not at the flat. Molly hasn't seen him. I don't know where to look, exactly, but... but look. Please, just, look. Maybe he's out by an underpass, talking to one of his contacts on the street. Maybe check by some bridges? I... I don't know."

_Fuck. He's out of the hospital and doing God knows what from God knows where. Anderson. He studied him. He'd know._

***

Mary finally found Leinster Gardens, only to meet the crackhead with the sprained wrist yet again.

_Fine. Sherlock Holmes finds **me**. Whatever. Now give me the damn phone._

"Where are you?"

"Can’t you see me?"

"Well, what am I looking for?"

"The lie – the lie of Leinster Gardens – hidden in plain sight. Hardly anyone notices. People live here for years and never see it, but if you are what I think you are, it’ll take you less than a minute. The houses, Mary. Look at the houses."

Mary looked all around. The street. The houses. If there was something to see, she hadn't spotted it yet. Damn. Well at least she could talk while she looked. Make him lose track of just how long it was taking for her to spot whatever it was she was meant to.

"How did you know I’d come here?"

"I knew you’d talk to the people no one else would bother with."

"I thought I was being clever."

"You’re always clever, Mary. I was relying on that. I planted the information for you to find."

"Ohhh." There it was. Two houses with no lights. And... no... window?

"Thirty seconds."

"What am I looking at?"

"No door knobs, no letter box. Painted windows. Twenty-three and twenty-four Leinster Gardens-- the empty houses. They were demolished years ago to make way for the London Underground, a vent for the old steam trains. Only the very front section of the house remains. It’s just a façade." He drew a labored breath, and Mary smiled. "Remind you of anyone, Mary? A façade?"

Mary nearly jumped as a light flashed and a picture of her in full bridal regalia was projected onto the buildings, three storeys high-- a giant cinema screen. She couldn't quite determine where it was being projected from without causing too much of a pull in her focus.

"Sorry. I never could resist a touch of drama." His voice still seemed strained. "Do come in. It’s a little cramped."

"Do you own this place?"

"Mmm. I won it in a card game with the Clarence House Cannibal. Nearly cost me my kidneys, but fortunately I had a straight flush. Quite a gambler, that woman."

 

Mary entered the narrow building-- more like a crawl space, actually. A bright light was shining, obscuring her view, but she could just about make out a figure at the far end.

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

"Mary Morstan was stillborn in October 1972. Her gravestone is in Chiswick Cemetery where, five years ago, you acquired her name and date of birth and thereafter her identity. That’s why you don’t have ‘friends’ from before that date. It’s an old enough technique, known to the kinds of people who can recognise a skip-code on sight--" She had miscalculated there, thinking he was too concerned about John to have given that much thought. "-- have extraordinarily retentive memories...."

Mary headed straight towards him. He was seated in a wheelchair, the IV drip balanced behind him. Still connected to the morphine, of course. That'd probably be the last thing he'd part with. "You were very slow," she spat.

"How good a shot are you?" His voice echoed in her head. She'd show him. She'd really show him. Mary pulled her pistol out of her coat and made a grand gesture of cocking it; the sound filled the small space. "How badly do you want to find out?"

"If I die here, my body will be found in a building with your face projected on the front of it. Even Scotland Yard could get somewhere with that."

 _Can't deny that._

"I want to know how good you are. Go on. Show me. The doctor’s wife must be a little bit bored by now." Oh, and she did want to show him she was no simple doctor's wife. Mary reached into the bag and pulled out a fifty pence piece and balanced it for a moment before tossing it into the air and coolly firing a shot right through the queen's head.

As Sherlock emerged from somewhere behind her and asked to see the coin, she peered into the darkness at the shadowy figure in front she had assumed, until this very moment, to have been Sherlock Holmes. She laughed. "It’s a dummy. I suppose it was a fairly obvious trick." 

Mary removed her headset and walked toward the fallen coin. She used her shoe to shove it roughly across the concrete floor towards him, smiling as Sherlock blocked it and slowly, painfully, bent down to retrieve it. Mary didn't know if she was more proud of her marksmanship on the coin or on the man in front of her. His voice cracked when he spoke, "And yet, over a distance of six feet, you failed to make a kill shot." She knew it wasn't true. It would have been a kill shot. Should have been-- if he hadn't been so very lucky. He continued, "Enough to hospitalise me-- not enough to kill me. That wasn’t a miss. That was surgery."

Mary looked up at him, then looked quickly away. So, Sherlock refused to believe he had been deceived. Tha he had been this utterly wrong about her. She quickly assessed if this could be to her benefit. 

"I’ll take the case," he said.

"What case?"

"Yours." He was angrier now. Pride. "Why didn’t you come to me in the first place?"

"Because John can’t ever know that I lied to him. It would break him and I would lose him forever, and-- Sherlock, I will never let that happen." She spoke to his retreating figure. "Please... understand. There is _nothing_ in this world that I would not do to stop that happening." _Don't blow my cover, Sherlock. No one can be trusted with this information. No one. Anyone who knows-- their life has to be made expendable. You have seen that, firsthand. John can't know. I can't make John expendable. He's my assignment. But if you tell him, it's on you. Anything I need to do, is on your head._

And the very word she had spoken when she shot him was echoed back at her in the harshly-lit enclosure, as Sherlock walked to the fuse box and flipped a switch. "Sorry." 

She blinked and adjusted to the change in light, as Sherlock continued, "Not that obvious a trick."

 _No. No, it can't..._ But she knew who was in the shadows now at the end of the corridor, as she let out a shaky breath. 

 

John ruffled his hair and pulled his collar back down as he walked toward her. Sherlock's voice was soft, and she didn't quite know what to make of it. Is it pity? "Now talk, and sort it out. Do it quickly. Baker Street. Now."

****

The ride to Baker Street was in complete silence. John stared resolutely at the road. Mary knew she should use this time to come up with a plan, but she still didn't understand what was happening. Why she wasn't dead. Or arrested. Or.... or any number of things besides being conveyed back to Sherlock's flat to sort things out.

***

Mrs Hudson opened the door and Mary gave her a quick smile in greeting as they all entered the flat. The landlady commented on how dreadful Sherlock looked. And he really did. He, in return, berated her for not having morphine.

John glared at Mary. "Is everyone I’ve ever met a psychopath?"

Sherlock looked up as if weighing the question and simply said "Yes". _Cute, Sherlock. Very cute. But John isn't exactly seeing the levity here. Not by a long shot._ Still, Mary's lips tightened and she nodded.

Sherlock continued. "Good that we’ve settled that. Anyway, we-- "

"Shut up!!" John yelled, loudly enough to shock Mrs Hudson. Then he backed off a bit. "And stay shut up, because this is not funny."

"I didn’t say it was funny."

And then John turned toward her. "You. What have I ever done...hmm?...my whole life... to deserve you?"

"Everything," Sherlock quipped.

Mary had no idea how to diffuse this. What to say. So she let Sherlock do the talking. So far, she was at a loss about where this was going. Still no Scotland Yard. And Sherlock must have some reason for bringing them here to talk. She decided to just listen.

"Sherlock, I’ve told you ... shut up."

"Oh, I mean it, seriously. Everything-- everything you’ve ever done is what you did."

"Sherlock, one more word and you will not. Need. Morphine." 

Mary couldn't believe it. Sherlock was pushing John, and he was bound to explode. His voice softened a bit, but Sherlock continued on, while John looked like he was doing some sort of deep breathing technique he picked up at that therapist of his. 

"You were a doctor who went to war. You’re a man who couldn’t stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. That’s me, by the way. Hello." He even stopped to wave. Mary didn't like where this was going. What was she, in this vibrant cast of characters in John's life? 

"Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel." 

Sherlock dodged the old woman's protests and continued to explain how John was addicted to a certain lifestyle, abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people, and then-- "so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you’ve fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?"

"But she wasn’t supposed to be like that." _No. **You** weren't supposed to **know.**_

She had been right all along. It would have been better for everyone if John had never known about this. Why couldn't Sherlock see that? Why did he have to force the issue? John would have been perfectly happy never knowing anything about her past. She was enjoying her time with him. They'd all share an even greater bond after Sherlock backed off a bit, and all would be well. Once her enemies were dealt with, she could even stay. Be happy.

If only he hadn't challenged her. If he had just respected her enough not to take that damn step. Then, all Sherlock would have had to have done was to keep a simple little secret about her past from John. But now... now there was this whole hospitalization to deal with. Even if he had flat out said it was Mary who shot him, she would have had a chance against him. His drug-addled mind. He had been clinically dead, surely there might have been some brain damage? But no. He had tricked her into revealing it herself. 

"Why is she like that?"

Mary tried to remain calm. Being talked about in the third person right in front of her was never a good thing. How was Sherlock going to respond to this one? That John craved normal just as much as she did, but everyone knew there was no such thing? 'Normal': lie upon lie-- people acting like they didn't secretly want to make other people, well...die. Be gone. It cleansed the Earth. She was like a rainstorm. A beautiful thunderstorm.

Sherlock thought for a bit, then turned and said "Because you chose her." _And isn't that the fucking truth. He did. He chose me._

"Why is everything, always--" Mary saw the anger boiling over. It was an old rage, coming from long before he ever met her. He yelled it out so strongly that Mrs Hudson jumped and left in a panic, "--My fault!" He upended a small table. Mary remained calm, continuing to assess what her next move should be. Sherlock stepped in. "John, listen. Be calm and answer me. What. Is. She?" 

"My lying wife?" _Everybody lies, John. Even the man trying so desperately to calm you down is a liar._

"No. What is she?"

"And the woman who’s carrying my child who has lied to me since the day I met her?" Mary stared right back now. No time for weakness. _Yes. Carrying your child. Prison would hardly be appropriate, would it?_

"No. Not in this flat; not in this room. Right here, right now, what is she?"

John looked fit to kill. And eventually, eventually, he sniffed and grimaced and said "Okay." He looked at Sherlock, then her, then Sherlock again. "Your way." Another glance back and forth.  
"Always your way."

Mary wasn't sure what Sherlock's way was. No need to get police involved. If they would all just keep quiet, then... well, she would need to play the pregnancy game for far longer than she had anticipated. Tricky. But doable with the right amount of calculated distance. Sherlock would probably want her far, far away anyway. And, from the look of things, John too. She braced herself for this, and was rather shocked when John said, "Sit."

"Why?"

The anger was simmering now, but it was more purposeful. Not impotent rage. "Because that’s where they sit-- the people who come in here with their stories. The clients. That's all you are now, Mary. You’re a client. This is where you sit and talk, and this is where we sit and listen. Then we decide if we want you or not."

 _Fine. So I'm a client-- for now._ Mary took out a thumb drive and placed it on the table.

"'A.G.R.A.’ What’s that?"

She cleared her throat. "My initials." In a manner of speaking. "Everything about who I was is on there. If you love me, don’t read it in front of me."

"Why?" John shrugged. 

Maybe he didn't care much, after all that had happened. It didn't feel good...losing. He was supposed to care about her. "Because you won’t love me when you’ve finished." John simply stared. "And I don't want to see that happen." She turned away and waited to see his next move. 

John sighed and snatched it up, glancing at Sherlock yet again before shoving it into his pocket. _He will look at it later. One of them will._ The drive was prepared just for this moment... filled with half truths. Far better than out-and-out lies. Sniffing, again, John pulled himself into a higher sitting position in his chair. Mary turned to Sherlock. She needed to know what he had figured out.

"How much do you know already?"

"By your skill set, you are-- or were-- an intelligence agent. Your accent is currently English but I suspect you are not. You’re on the run from something; you’ve used your skills to disappear--" He continued as John shook his head in disbelief. "Magnussen knows your secret-- which is why you were going to kill him-- and I assume you befriended Janine--" Sherlock hesitated. He was in pain. A lot of pain. Why wasn't he still in the hospital? "-- In order to get close to him."

_Hah! Yes, but **I** didn't sleep with her. Well...I didn't **almost** sleep with her... or whatever the hell it was you two did._ "Oh! You can talk!" 

Sherlock smiled. _Good. At least we both know what game we are playing._ It made the rest easier. Maybe he would understand why. She was just doing what needed to be done. Surely a man who jumps off a rooftop can respect that. 

"Ohhh. Look at you two. You should have got married." Mary tried not to react to visibly, but John could always be counted on to be a jealous arse. She couldn't even tell which one of them he was more jealous of. Both pretty equally, probably. She felt like she and Sherlock should exchange an incredulous glance-- show a moment of solidarity to acknowledge that they weren't interested in each other and never had been-- but Sherlock just blinked. Earlier on it might have unnerved her, to see him processing. Not any more. All artifice. No substance. Still, allies came from stranger places. At least Sherlock knew about sacrifice for work. John, not so much. John only knew about preemptive strikes for self defense. Military mind. 

"The stuff Magnussen has on me, I would go to prison for the rest of my life." 

"So you were just gonna kill him." 

"People like Magnussen _should_ be killed. That’s why there are people like _me._ " 

John smirked. "Perfect. So that’s what you were? An assassin? How could I not see that?" 

"You did see that." _At least you should have_. "And you married me. Because he’s right. It’s what you like." Always after danger. 

Sherlock interrupted what she had hoped would have been John's acknowledgement that she and Sherlock weren't so different after all. "So ... Mary. Any documents that Magnussen has concerning yourself, you want... extracted and returned." 

"Why would you help me?" 

"Because ... you saved my life." 

John stammered, "Sss...sorry, what?" Mary was just as surprised, though she said nothing. It... was sincere. Sherlock thinks she had saved him. Mary listened, not uttering a sound, head down. If Sherlock actually believed she had been in any way altruistic...she needed to read him well. 

"When I happened on you and Magnussen ..." His breathing was worse. He looked horrible right now. Too bad this sudden drop in his health hadn't happened _before_ he had made her reveal herself to John. "You had a problem. More specifically, you had a witness. The solution, of course, was simple. Kill us both and leave. However, sentiment got the better of you." _Emotion got the best of me, yes, but not sentiment. Thwarted by sentiment? That's your area, Sherlock. Projection doesn't suit you._ "One precisely-calculated shot to incapacitate me, in the hope that it would bide you more time to negotiate my silence. Of course, you couldn’t shoot Magnussen on the night that both of us broke into the building. Your own husband would become a suspect, so, you calculated ... that Magnussen ... would use the fact of your involvement rather than sharing the information with the police ... as is his M.O.... and then you left the way you came." She kept quiet. If there was one thing she could do that mister "one more deduction than I was expecting" couldn't, it was know when to shut up. "Have I missed anything?" he asked. 

She was about to shake her head when John jumped in. "How did she save your life?" 

_By not shooting him in the head, stupid._

"She phoned the ambulance." 

" _I_ phoned the ambulance," John insisted. 

"She phoned first. You didn’t find me for another five minutes. Left to you, I would have died. The average arrival time for a London ambulance is ..." Amid the chaos, the sound of medical personnel on the stairs, Sherlock managed to finish his sentence. "Eight minutes." 

If Sherlock had called for an ambulance eight minutes ago, she never noticed. Maybe Sherlock called his own bloody ambulance somehow at Magnussen's, too, because it sure as hell hasn't been her. Maybe someone else saw the whole scene? Could Janine have done? Medical workers fighting their way through Magnussen's security system would take more than eight minutes-- unless Magnussen himself cleared the way. Maybe they were already headed there _before_ she shot him? Maybe Magnussen had a secret alarm. Something? Whatever it was, it played well that she had called the ambulance. She was fortunate enough to have the distraction of Sherlock needing morphine and emergency care to prevent her from confirming or denying the claim. 

Mary backed away from the scene. 

She heard Sherlock claiming John could trust her. John seemed to doubt it, but his attention was elsewhere. He still managed to turn to her, teeth bared, before heading back beside Sherlock as the paramedics carried him downstairs. They rode away in the same ambulance. 

Mary called David. 


	10. Chapter 10

"You are familiar with Hitchcock, Mr Waters?"

Michael Waters nodded. The setting, a small table outside a sandwich shop at Victoria Station, suddenly seemed apropos. 

"Of course we aren't exactly _strangers_ at this _train_ station, are we? And it's not exactly a criss-cross I am about to propose. I can safely presume you would very much like to see the end of a Miss Mary Morstan. That is the last alias by which you know her?"

"Watson now, innit?"

"Ah. Yes. Good. And might I ask... if you have that information," Mycroft shifted forward in his seat, balancing his weight on his umbrella handle to lean even closer, "what you are waiting for?"

"Someone else wants 'er alive. Says she links up to some sorta people chain. Says if she's gone 'e can't get to the last one in line."

"I'm the last one in line, Mr Waters. Which means we both would like to see her removed from the chain. For different reasons, of course."

Waters picked up a biscuit. "If Magnussen is alive, she can't be touched. Ain't gonna cross 'im. Ain't that stupid." He scrutinized it briefly before putting it down again. 

"Would it surprise you if I told you Magnussen already promised _her_ he would kill _you_?"

Waters thought for a moment. "No. Not at all. Can't get ridda Magnussen though."

"Of course, if he _were_ gone..."

"I'd get up right early, I would. Be quite a few things to do."

"Well, you will look out for that, won't you?"

"If _'e's_ gone, _she's_ gone."

 


	11. Chapter 11

"You are certain she doesn't know that you know?"

"About the baby? Positive."

"You never told her?"

"Telling her early on would have been..." John affected an overly-confident façade, and flagged down an imaginary woman. "Hey there! Sex without pregnancy, come and get it!" He switched back to a more grave expression. "And she would have been incredibly naive to believe me. Plus, it... it makes it easier to, uh, use condoms-- which I always do at the beginning-- when they think it's to..." John stopped and started over. "It's somehow less offensive to imply I'm concerned about pregnancy than to explain that I've seen more than my fair share of sexually-transmitted diseases and I would rather not end up with one."

Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"Later, she did ask if I wanted children. She said that she didn't, and hoped I wasn't dead-set on them. That if it did happen it would be fine, but it wasn't something she particularly wished for. By then, we were further along, and I was about to mention it wasn't likely to happen, but then she said she took birth control pills for hormonal regulation and wouldn't ever want to go off them, and was so glad it wasn't a deal-breaker, before going on to discuss her pet allergy-- we couldn't have a pet either-- and the conversation veered to childhood pets and by that point it felt silly to bring it up again. I... don't like to bring it up. I don't like to lie, or to have people assume it was a vasectomy when it wasn't. It can still make me feel-- broken, sometimes."

"You didn't seem all that surprised when you found out she was pregnant, considering."

"I needed to check first. An obstruction becoming... somewhat less of an obstruction... has been known to happen. A very slim possibility is still a possibility. I didn't want to doubt her before I was 100% sure. Even so... it all happened so quickly, the whole relationship, that if she was still... sort of seeing someone, early on, and was already pregnant but never knew it.... I needed to figure out how I felt about that, too. How I _would_ feel. Before I said anything."

"Meaning that _you_ were seeing someone early on as well."

"Almost. There was..."

"The schoolteacher."

"Okay, how you knew that... I ... yes, there was some overlap. I had just started dating Mary, and Jeanette came to see how I was doing... without you... and we almost... but, we didn't. She said I needed to grieve and really needed a friend more. She still thought I had lost a lover." Sherlock got up to add a log to the fire. "Then I started seeing Mary exclusively, and hadn't heard from her since."

"Well, Mary is likely to test you, I should think. To see if you truly think of the baby as yours."

"I'm... well, I'm not surprised she had been with someone else. At least part of the time we were together-- the early months, anyway-- I... may not have been what she needed. I was a bit of a mess." John shook his head slowly at the memory. "During the honeymoon, I decided even though the baby probably wasn't mine, I could still make it work. I... loved being with her. And she probably believed it was mine. I thought I could love them, _both of them_ , anyway. I was going to tell her that, once I did the testing-- which I was sure hadn't improved any-- but I guess I must not have really wanted to know, because I didn't take the test until after she... after she shot you. And then I did it just to be sure I could leave with a clear conscience." He looked up at Sherlock with fierce determination. 

John relaxed a bit, slumping back into the comfort of his chair. "I haven't talked to her in so long now. I can't even remember the last time we so much as touched. We talked-- well, yelled is more like it-- on the phone a few times. It was only emails after that. She went and got all this medical care without me there. Sent me a scan. Honestly, why I left had nothing to do with the baby."

"She probably suspects you are aware the baby isn't yours. Otherwise, she wouldn't be so cavalier about your not participating in all the stages of her pregnancy."

"She's goddam lucky I'd share the same bloody country with her after what she did to you, never mind an obstetrician's office! Said she wouldn't try to keep our child away from me if we divorced, but she didn't want a half-supportive, estranged spouse grudgingly accompanying her to check-ups, and I had said I couldn't offer much more than that yet, until I sorted this out some more." 

John crumpled his lower lip. "I know I had said your way, Sherlock, but, I needed time and space. She got mad. Said all or none, and... well--" He sighed, and let his sadness be displaced by anger. "I still couldn't believe she had actually..."

"That doesn't matter, John. And if the baby's parentage truly doesn't matter to you either, take her back. Forgive her. It should be easier when you know I do."

"Wait... are you telling me you really bought that surgery thing? That was ridiculous. You don't get to call it surgery just because... because you shoot someone in the chest instead of the head. Because you were somehow able to pull through. How on Earth can you forgive her?"

"John, discussing this is compromising your ability to believe taking her back is the correct choice." Sherlock sat straighter in his chair.

John leaned forward. "You are saying it is? I'm just not... I don't know if I can do this. And don't insult my intelligence with the surgery crap. I didn't buy it then and I don't buy it now. The best I can give her is she gave you a fighting chance."

"More than she had to."

"No. No. She needed me to stay and take care of you and not go after her. Whoever..."

"She called the ambulance, John."

" _Somebody_ did. Janine was already on the floor. Maybe she had tripped an alarm when she first saw whoever eventually got to her. Or maybe Magnussen did it. Mary was too busy running away to have called anybody."

Sherlock smiled. "Just because it sounds ridiculous doesn't mean I don't believe it."

"What if... what if she killed _me,_ Sherlock. What if it was _me_ on that operating table, flatlining? Are you saying if you found out she killed me that you would have let her walk out of that room alive?" Sherlock blanched, but maintained his composure. "I didn't see it at the time, but it happened. _It happened_. I know you didn't threaten her."

" _Threaten_ is subjective."

"Look. If you want me to take her back because it's safer for the time being-- friends close and enemies closer-- I will. But. Be honest with me. I deserve the truth."

Sherlock sighed. "The truth is I don't know why she reacted the way she did. I offered to help her. And, in a way, the refusal felt worse than being shot. I don't know why she didn't want my help. Unless she thought someone every bit my equal was already pulling the strings."

"Moriarty? But he's dead!"

"I don't know yet. Can't make bricks without clay. What we need is more time."

"Ok. I'll buy us time. I'll keep it status quo. Even when the baby is born, I'll act like I don't know a thing. And. Fuck. And she'll believe it. And that just... that..." All of this, all he'd been through, and it was the thought of Mary perfectly happy to believe him so utterly clueless which made John finally lose the battle with his emotions. Sherlock rushed in with a distraction... something practical. A plan of sorts.

"John. Mary is skilled at reading body language and facial expressions. She," he hesitated, looking pained, "might... be better at it than I am. You need to be aware of your tells."

"Like a high-stakes poker game."

"A _very_ high stakes poker game. And, sorry to say, you are not exactly a first-class liar."

__"You'd be surprised."_ _

__" _John_." Sherlock grabbed a poker and adjusted the layering in the fireplace once more, knocking about the embers. "Lies by omission are quite different than lying to someone's face." He turned back to his chair._ _

__John felt heat rising. He tried, and failed, to remain calm. "I lived amongst lies and secrets all of my life. Ask me why I was late to school and I'd tell you it was because my dog slipped out the back gate, not because Mum had to drive me all the way in from Brixton because she took us to her sister's right after Da punched a hole in the kitchen wall."_ _

__Sherlock gave a tight nod in acknowledgment, but offered no sympathy. "That may be the case, but Mary is no schoolteacher. She is a highly-trained covert agent."_ _

__"My wife, the spy," John said wryly._ _

__"The most obvious one is answering too quickly or too slowly. The first is rehearsed, the second, a sluggish attempt to formulate a plausible answer to an unanticipated question. Your best bet is to be prepared, but to have an exceptionally good reason for being so. I suggest a planned discussion wherein you can admit to having pondered your statements for some time. This provides you with the opportunity to sound rehearsed-- to _be_ rehearsed-- without arousing undue interest, and will help alleviate some suspicion. Most of the other tells are subconscious. They will require continuing practice to weed out."_ _

__"Go on."_ _

__"Body language that contradicts speech. For example, someone nodding whilst actually saying no. Sometimes one may nod for emphasis, but, if you are thinking 'no' but saying 'yes', it's incongruous. So far... obvious. There is a natural disinclination toward looking closely at the person to whom one is lying. You must be able to make eye contact. However, one might also look away when ashamed... so if you can project feelings of shame surrounding your words, that can provide a suitable cover. A liar may also subconsciously obscure their mouth."_ _

__Sherlock headed to the kitchen to put on the kettle. "It's good to have drinks handy to see if someone is lying. They will often use it to block their lips. Also, anxiety can make your mouth dry. So... these will come in handy for practice." He set up the tea tray with two teacups while the water boiled. "Also, grooming, of one's self or one's environment-- a sort of keeping up appearances-- is indicative of untruths. These are all more or less controllable. The physiological aspects, however, are not. To counter that, you will need to stay as close to the truth as possible. This is where being vague-- even poetic-- can be helpful."_ _

__He continued as he poured the water into a small teapot. "There is an article you could read called _Deception Detection in Forensic Contexts_. It is difficult to access; many feel it is dangerous reading if it were ever to fall into criminal hands. Amongst the findings were increased pupil size and a higher-pitched voice. The idea that liars appear to have an unnaturally stiff posture or to fidget is a misconception. They are actually far more inclined to be still. I believe it has to do with the level of concentration required to maintain consistency. _The Facial Action Coding System_ , another well-researched work, is 90% accurate, but still in its beta form."_ _

__John smiled. "So the trick is in having another reason for the tell... to sort of muddy the waters?"_ _

__"It's the best we can do on short notice. Sometimes you can sense a deeper emotional issue at work, causing distress; that doesn't mean it's a lie. A micro-expression lasts less than one-fifth of a second, and it can show insight into the depths of one's psyche. It can indicate an emotion someone wishes to conceal-- like guilt -- but a truthful, innocent person may be simply apprehensive and _appear guilty_. A skilled detector will be well-aware of this. You have to rule out all other possibilities before you can be certain it's a lie you are reading."_ _

__He added milk and sugar to the tray. "When you are lying, you are more likely to repeat words and phrases, to use negative interjections and emotional descriptors-- such as 'hate', or 'worthless'-- and are also _less_ likely to use first-person pronouns-- a sort of... distancing yourself from your own fabrication. Exclusionary words are also more rare in lies than in truthful speech."_ _

__"Exclusionary words?"_ _

__"Words like 'except', 'but', 'nor'-- words that indicate what a person _did not_ do. Liars are more concerned with presenting the fiction of what they _did_ do."_ _

__Sherlock brought the teapot to the small table, as they each sat in their respective chairs. "Are you ready?"_ _

__"For what?"_ _

__"To practice. To see if I am lying. To see if you can lie to me."_ _

__"So, like... Truth or... Not Truth?"_ _

__Sherlock looked puzzled for a moment. "...Yes?"_ _

__"You know...like Truth or Dare, but..." John saw no look of recognition whatsoever on Sherlock's face and thought it best to move on. "So," John eased back into his chair and smiled. "Why didn't you tell me the bomb had an off switch?"_ _

__"I wasn't sure it had one," Sherlock rapidly replied._ _

__"Lie."_ _

__"Okay then. I'll be more specific." He answered slowly, punctuating each word, and making exaggerated side-to-side head movements. "I wasn't sure, _if_ I found the switch, that it would actually work properly. Particularly given my lack of knowledge about the origin of the--"_ _

__"More-detailed lie."_ _

__Sherlock sighed and looked directly at John. He paused a moment before he began. "I really needed your forgiveness, but I wasn't sure how to obtain it. And I thought that was the quickest route."_ _

__John's eyes widened in surprise. "My forgiveness?" His features softened. "That's...so.... Wait-- wait just a second." The fondness faded and was replaced by puzzlement, then annoyance. "You think something _extorted_ out of me is still valid? That apology is pretty useless if I only gave it because I didn't want our last few moments on Earth to be spent in the middle of an argument, when--"_ _

__"Exactly. Life's too short. Forgive and forget." Sherlock stretched out his legs and exhaled._ _

__John grinned. "Lie."_ _

__"What?"_ _

__"Lie. You just visibly relaxed, because you avoided having to tell me the whole truth-- only part of it."_ _

__"That was not taught!"_ _

__"And now you are trying to obfuscate. _And_ you are avoiding the use of the word 'I'!"_ _

__"You are a quick learner."_ _

__"Yes, _I_ am. Would you like to clear the table now? You haven't tidied anything up... yet."_ _

__Sherlock smiled, his eyes crinkling. He pressed his lips together._ _

__"And now you are trying to decide what to say next, so odds are _that's_ going to be a lie, too."_ _

__Sherlock sprang from his chair. "This is ridiculous!"_ _

__"Negative and overly emotional words." John was beaming at first, but it quickly fell off his face. He paused and tentatively added, "Sherlock?"_ _

__Sherlock walked around the room, agitated, eyes darting as if there was something hidden somewhere he longed to find. Then he turned abruptly and landed in his chair with an angry thud._ _

__"I wanted to hear what you would say."_ _

__John glanced toward his teacup. Suddenly, he was the one with the dry throat. "About how to disarm a weapon? It was far beyond my training, to..."_ _

__"No. If you thought you were dying. There was no one else there-- no reason for you to be concerned about what someone might think. Just you, and me, and the threat of eternal nothingness. Do you remember what I said? 'If I hadn't come back, you wouldn't be standing there, and you'd still have a future'," he glanced down quickly, "'...with Mary.'"_ _

__John closed his eyes and took a breath, remembering the moment. How pained Sherlock had looked. He opened his eyes, only to see that selfsame expression._ _

__Sherlock continued. "You said it was difficult for you. And I said I knew that. I thought...that it would help. The urgency. If there was... anything there, it would be a good opportunity to..." He ended the conversation and picked up the cup. "See. Sometimes you _aren't_ lying and you just, feel compelled to drink some tea." He took a few sips. "It _is_. Difficult, that is. To say."_ _

__John looked at Sherlock, face obscured by the cup. "I don't think I understand. You're saying you were trying to see if I would have had some dramatic moment... of.... " John's eyes targeted Sherlock's face and he simply stared until he was certain Sherlock felt the undeniable pull to finally put the cup down. "A declaration?" With no barrier between them now, there was a mere quarter-of-a-second of what could only be described as vulnerability before he hardened his face again._ _

__"None of it matters. And it was a ridiculous gesture on my part, brought about by an absurd hope that with the fear and... I wasn't trying to take advantage of the situation, John. I was trying to make it easier. Giving you an opportunity to say something you perhaps couldn't otherwise. But only if it was there to be said." He forced a small smile. "It wasn't. It's fine. And it was a stupid thought, and an even stupider action. Yes, overly dramatic, sentimental in the extreme. I'm better off for not having dabbled in such things. I'm not cut out for it, after all."_ _

__"But, you are. You did. I didn't think you would ever..." A moment or two after the initial shock faded, John leaned forward and placed his hand softly on Sherlock's shoulder._ _

__"I don't need that, John. I'm fine."_ _

__"Yes. I know you're fine. Always have been."_ _

__Sherlock looked to the left and blinked rapidly._ _

__"I didn't know that was ever something you wanted. Except... as a way of getting someone to do something. Like Molly. Irene. Janine. And I know now that was just a sham, but, I thought you could do it so easily because you didn't really care about that sort of thing. But... you do." The last words hovered somewhere between a question and a statement._ _

__"You had it right once. You called me the most human... human being... yes, I heard it. I don't know how you managed to see that. No one ever does. But then I went and did something that stripped me of my humanity. I did it deliberately. And callously." Sherlock paused, started to say something and then halted, appearing to change course. "I did it because I thought you'd be far more likely to survive for my having done so, and I still think that's the important thing. But I didn't anticipate either of your reactions. Not the depths of your grief, nor the rapidity with which you had pledged your life to someone else. Not that you were pledged to me in any way, of course...."_ _

__John simply nodded as Sherlock continued. "I suppose I thought you would be in a sort of... stasis until I returned."_ _

__"Be fair. I didn't know you were planning on returning." John's voice sounded far away. "Once, for a short time, I thought that it was a sham. Your death. I remembered your saying it was just a trick... just a magic trick... and I thought, maybe it was. But that idea faded in time. I got to be known far and wide as the trusting idiot who believed in Sherlock Holmes. I defended your memory, until even _that_ disappeared from the papers, and by the time Mary came along, I was...I had no purpose again, wanting to stop stagnating, afraid I wouldn't make it, and... damn it, she was the best thing to happen to me... right then... and she knew it, and I never knew there was a _reason_ why I met her precisely when I did. I thought it was fate. It was actually careful planning." _ _

__John's voice grew stronger, but he still looked lost. "But having you back. I..." John focussed directly on Sherlock. "I've seen people I cared about die, Sherlock. Plenty. And there've been suicides, too. Bill Murray saved my life. He was the one who stopped the bleeding in my shoulder. His tour had been almost over by that time, and he came home to nothing and no one." John took a breath and continued._ _

__"He killed himself. I was in London at the time. I had been there for a week and a half. Discharged. And I didn't even know he had done it. I looked at my own gun and I thought, why not? Why the fuck not? And when you...when you killed yourself right in front of me... and it didn't matter what I had said..."_ _

__"I didn't know, John," he pleaded. "I wasn't thinking about the fact that... I thought _how_ I died would be inconsequential. I mean, I actually had little choice in the matter. I was meant to die in disgrace... to kill my reputation as well as my person, though, truth be told, my legacy means little to me. People are always wrong about so many things; they've been wrong about me my whole life. Idiots and their false assumptions. And I suppose that is why I didn't think of it as being any different than had I been shot and killed. Dead is dead. I thought you'd grieve, certainly... and I thought you'd move on, of course... but I thought, if I truly did survive my time away-- which was by no means certain, but _if_ I did-- I could just... reenter your life and you would be grateful, and relieved, and..."_ _

__"I am grateful. And relieved. It is... I don't know how to react. It isn't exactly a normal occurrence. I went back to Ella. When you died. I had things to say to you." John sighed. "She asked me to speak them aloud, and... and I couldn't. So she said to write them down. I did. I wrote them down and it-- it got... a bit angry... and I burned them. And I felt better. I did. And I met Mary the following week."_ _

__"John. Lie."_ _

__"What?!"_ _

__"John, we are lost in nostalgia, and it is counterproductive. I've rather lain my cards on the table here, and you will need to process this all, but we do not have the luxury of time. You've forgotten you need to practice lying. You have already proven yourself very capable of recognizing them." Sherlock let out a half-smile. "Good work. Now, lie to me. Three statements with at least one lie. I suggest keeping to your past, so I can have less of a chance of knowing the correct answer through actual observation during our years together. This is crucial work. Anything else is a mere distraction from this moment. Whatever we may have felt-- or perhaps still feel-- to force a discussion at this time benefits no one."_ _

__John's mouth creased at the edges and he swallowed, but he nodded, cleared his throat, and began._ _

__"I always wanted to be a father. To prove I could do better than mine. He was constantly drinking...pretty much ignored us half the time and beat us the other half. I had to teach myself how to throw and catch-- all that father-son stuff-- and I always thought 'I can do better'. I thought.... he'll probably be dead and won't ever see it... but I'm going to be the best father in the whole world. I'll get it right. Even if no other Watson ever has."_ _

__Sherlock nodded silently. "Next."_ _

__"My pet goldfish died when I was six. It kept swallowing gravel and it would get caught in its gills. I used to wonder why my fish wanted to die. I thought it missed the ocean instead of a boring tank. When I heard that all drains eventually go to there, I flushed it so it could escape."_ _

__"And three."_ _

__"The day we met, I had thought about killing myself that very morning."_ _

__"The first is a lie. Too much detail."_ _

__John nodded. "Okay. I won't try so hard to justify myself next time."_ _

__"I think you would have been, though. An excellent father."_ _

__"Thank you," said John. He sighed. "I suppose by this point, I'm not very likely to find out. He wasn't that bad, my dad. And he didn't drink. At all. My mum did. And Granddad. But he did have quite a temper."_ _

__"The second, I would say is true?"_ _

__"Every word."_ _

__"And the third. Since I met you that afternoon, I am in possession of the details of your behaviour within a few hours' time of your narrative, so this will be somewhat corrupted as an exercise. You were likely dragged out of any negative thoughts by unexpectedly crossing paths with Mike Stamford. However, based on your delivery alone, I would have to say that it is... true." Sherlock seemed almost to surprise himself with his conclusion._ _

__"No. It's a lie. It was the night before. By the morning, I decided I owed it to Bill to try and pull through. I guess sticking close enough to the truth is effective, though. I was still thinking about what it had felt like that night, as I was telling it to you just now. The emotions probably bleed through a bit."_ _

__Sherlock frowned. "I should say something."_ _

__"No, you shouldn't. It's over. I have a place and a purpose now."_ _

__"Sometimes that isn't enough."_ _

__"You've been there?"_ _

__"No. Staying alive-- albeit miserably-- that was my specialty. Even when I almost killed myself, it wasn't intentional. I simply... miscalculated. Mycroft thought it was intentional, however. Thought I was above simple error. Truth is, it was a very simple and very real _error_. Maths are not my strong suit. Would that they were. The situation could have been avoided and I wouldn't still find myself under his watchful eye. Literally." Sherlock gave a quick glance around the flat._ _

__"By which you mean you would still be getting high, just not riding it quite that close to the edge?"_ _

__"It is a myth that we use only 10 percent of our brains, but I did often _feel_ as if I were using only 1 percent a good part of the time. I ask you...what on Earth had I to be clean for? What was worth the effort? The work occasionally helped... when it was good. Plus, showing up high in a room full of police officers is not a wise move, if you value your liberty. Not that I didn't try, early on. I muddled a case rather badly. Donovan would be all too happy to provide you with details; I would prefer not to."_ _

__"I think I'll pass."_ _

__"So, what have we learned?" Sherlock asked, in mock condescension._ _

__"Keep it close to the truth. Less detail." John smirked. "Right. So. I never read the file."_ _

__"Well you didn't. Read it. Technically."_ _

__John smiled. "No, I didn't, did I? Let's file that under deceptive word choice, eh?"_ _

__"John. We are losing our focus. Remember I said to be poetic? What will you say to her. Be poetic."_ _

__"Our marriage has been an amazing experience?"_ _

__"This is the right track..."_ _

__"That it's _terrific_."_ _

__"Too much, John. Don't get cute."_ _

__"That I look forward to the future."_ _

__"Better."_ _

__"That to help her get the love she deserves is... that... that her past is... her past is her problem."_ _

__"See. Honest words. Dishonest meaning."_ _

__"That her past is her problem and her future is my privilege. Are we done, then?"_ _

__Sherlock sighed. "I suppose a short mental break might be in order."_ _

__"Good, because I haven't forgotten about the other line of conversation."_ _

__"Which we are still not ready for. And as far as your anger at the shooting, let it go, John. I have."_ _

__"Have you?"_ _

__Sherlock refused to clarify._ _

__"I don't want to be... I can't stand being around her now. Not when I already knew she was seeing someone else, lying about it, and then I find out she was the one who-- I made a vow, Sherlock. When you were still unconscious. I made a vow that, if it was the last thing I'd ever do, I'd--"_ _

__"You need to keep up appearances. You need to stay until after the birth, at least."_ _

__"Why?"_ _

__"Because any change would alert her to a problem, and she'd take off."_ _

__"Maybe I want her to."_ _

__"Not until we fit together all the pieces. Right now she believes everyone is her enemy. I don't fancy having an enemy who could easily kill us both. I'd rather be her friend."_ _

__"You don't understand how it is. I'm supposed to be... I'm supposed to be intimate with her. I don't think I can't do this alone. Will you at least be there-- when I take her back? Can we all be together for some reason? When you are there, at least I feel like we can do this together. Sort of. Maybe at Christmas?" John gave a wry smile. "You know, she wanted to invite you over before, but now.... And... she even made some talk that sounded rather like... well... never mind."_ _

__"Like what?"_ _

__"Like she, wanted the three of us, together." John swallowed, felt the need to clarify. "Sexually... together. But she stopped discussing that after the wedding."_ _

__"You would have considered that?"_ _

__"I would have, yes. If she was.... I don't ever want to cheat on someone, Sherlock. I've seen what that does to people. I'd never want to make someone look like a fool. But if it was something she wanted to do, I... wouldn't have said no."_ _

__Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't have said no. That's an enthusiastic endorsement." Sherlock looked entirely serious._ _

__"That's nothing bad about you. I was very... I," John met Sherlock's eyes, " _am_ very interested in you. I just, wasn't sure about it before-- about how you would feel-- and then I, well I can't even look at her anymore. I would lose myself in you and ignore her."_ _

__"So you would use me for the purpose of avoiding her. Will the compliments never cease?" This time Sherlock smirked playfully, but John didn't notice._ _

__"That's not what I... that's not how I meant it! I mean it's you over her, it's always been you over her! If you hadn't been... hadn't been dead... I never would have-- You were dead, Sherlock. You were dead and I loved you and I couldn't go another day thinking about it. I just couldn't. And she must have been watching me a long time to know when that moment was when I was on the verge of ..." John shook his head. "No. No, I'm not going to go through this all over again. You were dead and you stayed dead and I am not to blame for trying to go on."_ _

__"And she helped you, John. And you _loved_ her. You may still. You are certain you don't want to reconcile?"_ _

__"She didn't help me. She used me to get information. But I understand. If I want to leave, we need to know more about her background. For our own protection." A log in fireplace popped, and he flinched at the sudden noise. "When did you know? And I'm not playing a game anymore, Sherlock. I'm not practicing lie detection; I'm flat out asking. When did you know what she was all about? What did you see once you really looked at her? Did you..." John struggled to keep himself in check. "Did you let me marry a cold-blooded killer. Did you know all along? Truth, Sherlock. I need truth here. Please."_ _

__"I... saw that she was lying, but, I didn't...." Sherlock trailed off, and he forced his gaze back to John. "So many people lie, John. Most of it is insignificant. I didn't look into it further."_ _

__John tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. "Truly? You? You saw something and you didn't need to know exactly what it was? That's hard to..."_ _

__"I'm not lying."_ _

__"I believe you. It doesn't seem like you at all, but, I believe you."_ _

__"I was going to. I decided to exercise restraint."_ _

__"By which you mean you resented the hell out of the fact that I had chosen someone that wasn't you when you were gone, and you got petty?"_ _

__"No!" He straightened in this chair. "Well... maybe. But... not deliberately. I thought I might be seeing things that-- emotion clouds judgment, John. And by the time I had decided that this was going to happen, this marriage, that I should accept it for what it was-- and accept _us_ for what _we_ were-- once I did that, I examined it again. Or rather, I meant to. But. Remember when Molly brought over her... who was he again?"_ _

__"Tom."_ _

__"When Molly brought over Tom-- who, I think we can agree, bore more than a passing resemblance to me-- I didn't say a word. And, you were telling me-- not so much with language, but with every fibre in your being-- to let it go. Well. I was headed downstairs, after _not saying anything_. And you had said you were still waiting. You _meant_ you were still waiting for me to tell you who set up the bonfire, but-- just for a moment-- I thought you meant that you were still waiting for me to do that with Mary. To, tear her down as merely a poor substitute. To drag out some bit of her past and throw it at you as to why she couldn't possibly be good enough for you." John shifted awkwardly._ _

__"Anything I found, if I had looked, wouldn't have mattered-- or so I thought. I decided-- for probably the first time in my life-- not to look. It wasn't a kindness, you had said once, saving someone from their own freely-made choices. But if I had known you would have been in any sort of danger, I would have said something. Even if I thought you wouldn't believe me-- and I sincerely thought you would have your doubts-- I would have found some way."_ _

__"I would like to think I would have. Believed you."_ _

__"Perhaps."_ _

__"So, when did you... that she..."_ _

__"In hospital. That was the first time I truly saw her. I put it all together in hospital."_ _


	12. Chapter 12

"Could've been friends, you know. I meant that. I would've helped you, too-- just t' mess with him. Just wonderin' though. What type of fool do you think would employ security guards that hate him?"

"The same type who would flick his PA in the eye."

"Ah. So Mary mentioned a few things. I shoulda known not to trust her."

"No. Mary didn't mention it. But is my business to know what others do not... Janine." He stumbled over the name that was once so familiar to him; it suddenly seemed inappropriate-- far too intimate to use.

"I wanted him dead. Mary was supposed to see to it. She must've made some sort of deal with him. He's protecting her now."

"Protecting her? Doesn't he have information that could destroy her?"

"Nah. Nothin' on her. Nothin' concrete, anyway... and I would know."

"I need to get past security."

"You let me down before Sherlock. You used me."

"Yes."

"But I still made out pretty good on that deal. I do this though... you need to promise me he's gone."

Sherlock nodded silently.

"You're to be trusted. Didn't quite trust me though... with the important things, anyway. That story to keep me at bay? I know some of it's true, even if most of it was a packa lies. Did you think I was daft?

"Yes. I... underestimated quite a few people. Won't be happening again."

"That's as good as an apology, I suppose."

"No, it isn't." He took a breath. "I'm sorry."

She smiled. "I know it's just because you need me, but it feels good all the same. I knew it wouldn't work, but it was a fun ride." She winked. "I do like you... Sherlock. And I will make sure the security guard on duty is someone who will be a bit careless."

"Thank you."

"Glad to help."


	13. Chapter 13

"I shall be going to another Christmas party shortly after our own family gathering."

"Will you now?"

"Yes. I owe someone a gift. The only hindrance is, as of yet, I do not have the required invitation. I would need your assistance in procuring one."

"But, surely, your name opens doors," Sherlock let the full force of his contempt resonate throughout the flat.

"You are the better one at... worming your way in, uninvited. No one wants you, and yet, you are _so_ frequently... _there._ "

"Yes, from an early age you never were physically capable of _stealth_. And just where is this sought-after soirée?"

"Appledore. Magnussen's tactics have become a liability. He is no longer an acceptable risk-- believes himself so vital that he can do as he pleases. Threaten... whomever he so desires."

Sherlock fell silent.

"There, of course, comes a time when I can no longer tolerate such excess. We both know he can not be simply arrested, but if he were to be involved in an altercation-- perhaps on his private property-- things might, go wrong."

"Things don't go wrong, Mycroft. Not when your... _people_... do them."

"Ah. It is nice to see you still have faith in the abilities of my organization. But, alas, accidents happen. Even to someone previously under protection."

"Why?"

"Others disagree, of course, but I believe him to be no longer an asset. You needn't concern yourself with why. Just provide me with an official reason to enter his estate. Via helicopter would be ideal. I leave the 'how' to your... unique skill set."

"It would cost you, " Sherlock drew out the word to emphasize his distaste, "politically."

"Certainly, it would. There is a price for everything. And there is a price for doing nothing as well. If Magnussen is eliminated, two people who pose a perpetual threat to someone I have a vested interested in protecting can be, well... "

"And who might that someone be, Brother Mine?"

It was Mycroft's turn for silence.

"You knew something. You knew something and you didn't tell me. And you feel a sense of accountability."

"Don't be absurd. Even if I didn't know a single thing, I wouldn't want to sit idly by. Especially after he--"

"But at one point you did. Sit idly by."

Mycroft sighed. "That was concerning Mary. I knew Mary was spying on you. I didn't know right away... only just before the wedding, when I inherited Moriarty's contact list. I impersonated him for a brief time. I didn't see the harm."

"Of course not. You never seem to see any problem in spying. Especially on me."

"A spy is not an assassin. And even an assassin is not out to assassinate _you_... or so I thought. I deal with people like Mary frequently. I had no reason to believe she was unstable. Just... a steady source of information."

"You didn't tell me. Didn't tell John. Just... let her feed you information about the both of us."

"It was going directly to _me_ , yes."

"But she didn't _think_ it was going to you."

"Initially, I believed she didn't care who it was going to. But I misjudged her. She may have been doing more for Moriarty than just keeping a watchful eye on you. And she certainly had more malicious intent than I had anticipated."

"You think you can mollify your interference by continuing to interfere?"

"I can make this right." He looked like he wanted a drink. Sherlock was pleased he hadn't offered him one. "I let her stay. I could have sent her away. Given her another assignment. Cut her loose. But, I felt it best if I watched and waited for just a little longer. I was concerned about your well-being. I felt an inside line was necessary."

"It prevented nothing."

"She wasn't meant to harm you; she was being ordered not to, as a matter of fact. Just to stay close."

"To John?"

"I can't extrapolate to what degree her feelings for John are sincere. But I can say she was assigned to him by the late Sebastian Moran, whom you met up with in Moldova. And I... may have implied she shouldn't neglect her husband-to-be."

"Excellent. We can add marriage counsellor to your list of remarkable skills." Sherlock paused and weighed out his next sentence before speaking. "I wasn't going to, you know. Break them up. Steal him away. I _am_ capable of restraint. Of appreciating what I do have."

"An invitation, Sherlock. He needs to want me there. And another thing... I have reason to believe conversations at _both_ holiday events will be closely monitored."

"Secretly taping a party? How rude." He would let John know the whole house would be bugged. Likely the surrounding outdoor areas as well. It would be a good time to brush up on coded notes.


	14. Chapter 14

Mary sat in the armchair facing the fire, a blanket carefully draped over her stomach and legs. She didn't want the prosthetic to be under too much scrutiny. It was professional grade; the type an actor would use. Top quality, David had assured her, but that didn't help much to ease her concern. One close look and it would all be over. She flicked through the book nervously. She and John hadn't seen each other in months. Whenever they had had a conversation, it had been through email. She had John believing it was easier that way-- kept everything civil. There hadn't been much to say, though. Seeing her opportunity, she had expertly exploited his discomfort with the emotions behind the situation. She had made him feel unwelcome accompanying her, pressed the issue, and continued to argue until she could self-righteously insist on going to the "appointments" alone.

Mrs Holmes handed her a mug of...tea, she assumed. Mary didn't look closely at it before placing it on side table. As Sherlock's mother chatted amiably, Mary tried her best to be polite and friendly in return. John had asked her here. Insisted. Maybe some tea might help after all. She took a few half-hearted sips.

Sherlock's father was smiling now, too.

"Did you write this?" she asked Mrs Holmes. 

"Oh, that silly old thing. You mustn’t read that. Mathematics must seem terribly fatuous now!"

Of course she did. Mary thought about how different the woman's life must be now. Once, she had been brilliant, before domesticity had claimed her. She headed back toward the kitchen.

"Complete flake, my wife, but happens to be a genius."

"She was a mathematician?"

"Gave it all up for children. I could never bear to argue with her. I’m something of a moron myself. But she’s ... unbelievably hot!"

Mary giggled politely. "Oh my God. You’re the sane one, aren’t you?"

"Aren’t you?"

She just smiled in response. _No. No, I'm never the sane one._ She took another sip and wondered what the one who was supposedly sane wanted from her. Why here? Why now?

John appeared in the doorway, as if on cue. "Oh," he said, awkwardly.

Mary opened the book at random. 

"Sorry. I-- I just...." John watched Mr Holmes leave, then fidgeted a bit while Mary continued to pretend to be absorbed in reading. She waited.

"So, are you okay?"

"Oh! Are we doing conversation today? It really is Christmas!" She was taken aback by the sight of the thumb drive in John's hand. "Now? Seriously? Months of silence and we’re gonna do this now?" She watched as he rolled it around in his hand. "So, have you read it?"

What was on it was hardly the whole truth. And she wasn't exactly dim enough to go around carrying convictable evidence against her conveniently stored on a drive for easy reading. But it did mention a few key things she was involved with. She was hoping he would download it though, as one of main things on there was a hidden keystroke recording program. Plenty of info on Waters...should anyone need evidence against them. That bit did make her look pretty bad, though. Quite a few family members who were not involved in the robberies didn't make it out of the fire. She sometimes felt bad about them. Sometimes not. They certainly benefited from the criminal activities of their relatives, even if they weren't aware of them.

"W--would you come here a moment?"

"No. Tell me. Have you?" _So I know. Where I stand with you._

"Just," he stopped, softened, "come here."

Mary grimaced, unwrapping the blanket from her stomach and legs, and stood up as if it had taken extreme effort, one hand still protectively blocking her belly. When John stepped toward her, offering his hand, she refused his help. She righted herself and waited.

***

John took a deep breath. This would be difficult. If he did it right, she would be so vulnerable. So emotional. If he did it right, she would feel absolved. John had never felt more cruel in his life. It was harder than he thought. Not just the lying. The fact that he had to do this at all. He did-- he still does-- love her.

The last time he had given her a hug was... was when Sherlock had just regained consciousness. She had been surprised he was awake. He swallowed his anger. She must have... must have been panicking the whole time she was embracing him. The whole time she was offering him all that reassurance. 

Well. If she could do that, so could he. 

He let the nerves help him. Sounding nervous was a good thing. It muddied the water. 

His voice seemed thin and quiet, even to his own ears. "I’ve thought long and hard about what I want to say to you." A long breath. "These are prepared words, Mary." Now a slightly shaky one. "I’ve chosen these words with care."

She seemed nervous, too. "Okay."

At first, he looked down, aware of Mary zooming in on his features, scanning for additional data. 

His voice was soft, but steadier now. "The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future ... are my privilege."

She seemed caught a bit off guard, as if she had been expecting a far different outcome. Her face fell, trapped in a wash of emotions. And John... he just wanted this to be over. "It’s all I have to say. It’s all I need to know," he stated firmly.

He looked back at the drive, then forced his gaze up to meet her eyes-- deliberately making contact before dramatically tossing it onto the fire. Her tears were unexpected, and he could tell she hated them. Hated the lack of control. Or...and it hurt to think it... maybe they weren't unexpected at all. Maybe she was just that good. Maybe it was all fake.

"No, I didn’t read it," he added. He didn't want to appear vague or as if he was somehow skirting the answer. And it was the truth, of course. He was so glad of that.

"You don’t even know my name."

"Is ‘Mary Watson’ good enough for you?"

"Yes! Oh my God, yes!" 

"Then it’s good enough for me, too." He nearly forgot, stunned by the fact that it was almost over, but even more so by the feel of her body in his arms. But the next bit was crucial. "All this does not mean that I’m not still basically pissed off with you."

"I know, I know."

"I am _very_ pissed off, and it will come out now and then." _When I can't fake it. When you will sense it._ That accomplished, he pulled his mind back to the unexpected discovery that had nearly derailed him. He had to get to Sherlock right away. Had to tell him that she...

"I know, I know, I know," she said.

Distract. Distract. Humour. "You can mow the sodding lawn from now on."

"I do mow the lawn."

"No, I do it loads."

"You really don’t."

"I choose the baby’s name."

"Not a chance."

"Okay." Another hug. Just to be sure. Carefully.

Fuck. 

"So, you realise that Sherlock got us out here to see his mum and dad for a reason?"

"His lovely mum and dad. A fine example of married life. I get that. That is the thing with Sherlock – it’s always the unexpected." As John began to break out of their embrace he was surprised by her sudden shift of weight. Then, she slumped completely into his arms.

"Mary? Jesus Christ. Mary? Sit down. Mary, can you hear me?"

His panic was interrupted by Sherlock popping in from the kitchen. "Don’t drink Mary’s tea. Oh, or the punch."

John looked around, wary of any cameras. "Did you just drug my pregnant wife?"

"Don’t worry. Wiggins is an excellent chemist."

"What the hell have you done?"

"A deal with the devil."

"Me too, " he muttered, scribbling a note, too urgent to bother with coding it, and besides, the entire household was unconscious anyway. **We have a very big problem. Staying with her is no longer the safest option. She is not pregnant. Whatever you have planned, whatever trap we are setting up for her-- there is no time.**

"Ah. There's our lift. Coming?"

"Where?"

"Do you want your wife to be safe?"

 _Right now she sure isn't. Never felt less safe around someone in my life._ John smiles. _And I invaded Afghanistan._ She's dangerous as hell, and they are both stuck by her side until they can get a better plan in place. "Yeah, of course I do," he said.

"Good, because this is going to be incredibly dangerous...."

Once a safe distance away from the house, Sherlock verified that John had, in fact, brought his gun. He gestured to the helicopter-- their ride to Appledore.


	15. Chapter 15

"I would offer you a drink but it’s very rare and expensive."

Sherlock ignored the lack of offer and focused instead on the film loop on the rather large screen-- his pulling John out of the bonfire. "Oh. It was you."

"Yes, of course. Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr Holmes."

"Mmm."

"The drugs thing I never believed for a moment. Anyway, you wouldn’t care if it was exposed, would you? But look how you care about John Watson."

John stared at the footage, gaping.

"Your damsel in distress."

"You... put me in a fire ... for leverage?"

"Oh, I’d never let you burn, Doctor Watson. I had people standing by. I’m not a murderer ... unlike your wife." 

_No. Not a murderer. Where's the fun in that? Far more like a cat, playing with his prey. Just killing someone? Dull. No, once he has someone in his grasp there will be a lifetime of favors to call in-- until they are deemed no longer useful. Of course Mycroft's scarcely better in that regard. Does Magnussen know his time is up?_ He had to lure Mycroft here, as promised, but... Sherlock hadn't agreed to let Mycroft handle the situation entirely his way. This was not Mycroft's fight, after all.

"Let me explain how leverage works, Doctor Watson. For those who understand these things, Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in the country. Well... apart from me."

John looked at him, questioningly, while Sherlock didn't even try to suppress a grin. _Oh yes, please do explain all about how leverage works. I simply have no idea._

"Mycroft’s pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock." _True. One would think that as adults I would finally be able to fight my own battles. But. True._. "And Sherlock’s pressure point is his best friend, John Watson." _Undeniable._ He had even managed to direct a short film as proof. "John Watson’s pressure point is his wife." _And, that is where your train derails. No mention of John's child?_ Well, whether he knew about the faked baby or not was irrelevant. "I own John Watson’s wife ... I own Mycroft. He’s what I’m getting for Christmas."

"It’s an exchange, not a gift." _And the exchange isn't even for your benefit._ Sherlock handed him the laptop.

"Forgive me, but ... I already seem to have it."

"It’s password protected. In return for the password, you will give me any material in your possession pertaining to the woman I know as Mary Watson." _So she can still believe this was just a mission to save her._

"Oh, she’s bad, that one. So many dead people. You should see what I’ve seen."

"I don’t need to see it," John stated. 

"You might enjoy it, though. I enjoy it." John nodded... and Sherlock felt vaguely ill. What Magnussen truly enjoyed wasn't watching people die. But he needed to keep this going. To see just what he was truly up against. Every bit of data would help him protect them from whatever future moves she might make. 

"Then why don’t you show us?"

"Show you Appledore? The secret vaults? Is that what you want?"

"I want everything you’ve got on Mary."

Magnussen paused. "You know, I honestly expected something good."

"Oh, I think you’ll find the contents of that laptop--"

"-- Include a GPS locator. By now, your brother will have noticed the theft, and security services will be converging on this house. Having arrived ... they’ll find top secret information in my hands ... and have every justification to search my vaults. They will discover further information of this kind and I’ll be imprisoned. You will be exonerated, and restored to your smelly little apartment to solve crimes with Mr and Mrs Psychopath. Mycroft has been looking for this opportunity for a long time. He’ll be a very, very proud big brother."

"The fact that you know it’s going to happen isn’t going to stop it."

"Then why am I smiling? Ask me."

It was John who asked. 

"Because Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves ... and everything he holds dear. Let me show you the Appledore vaults."

He led them to a small room. "The entrance to my vaults. This is where I keep you all."

There were no vaults. There was no information. No one had anything on her. Not her enemies. Not her former friends. Not her temporary allies. Nothing. No leverage against her.

Sherlock watched as Magnussen scrolled through imaginary files. "All those wet jobs for the CIA. Ooh! She’s gone a bit ... freelance now. Bad girl. Ohh! Ah, she is so _wicked_. I can _really_ see why you like her. Speaking of news, you’ll both be heavily featured tomorrow-- trying to sell state secrets to me. Let’s go outside. They’ll be here shortly."

_Yes, they will. And Mycroft will have his invitation, his precious helicopter, and a front row seat._

"Can’t wait to see you arrested."

"Sherlock, do we have a plan? Sherlock?" 

_Yes, John. I have a plan. We don't. But I do._ Sherlock said nothing, frozen in his thoughts of how John would react to what he was about to do. Cycling it in his head like Magnussen's film loop.

"I just love your little soldier face. I’d like to punch it. Bring it over here a minute." John didn't move a muscle. Of course his John wouldn't. "Come on. For Mary. Bring me your face." 

He could do it right now. Mycroft could just piece it all together later. That there was no information. That Magnussen was simply smoke and mirrors. That he had no proof. An inquiry would be all it would take to bring Magnussen down, if _anyone_ with _any_ degree of power was untarnished enough to stand up to him and demand one. Only, no one rose that high up without their little secrets. Not even The British Government Himself. Surely if Mycroft went up against him, there would be no easy way out. No chance of a pardon. 

John looked at Magnussen, who nodded in response. Clearing his throat, John took a step toward him.

"Lean forward a bit and stick your face out. Please? Now, can I flick it?"

Sherlock briefly, ever so briefly, heard it as "Now, can I lick it?" He knew he didn't. He knew those couldn't possibly have been the right words. His thoughts were just tangled... with Lady Smallwood. With his own _encounter_ with Magnussen, strapped down by endless tubing in a hospital bed.

John was remaining defiant. Unaware of just what Magnussen was capable of. Of what they both were capable of, actually: Magnussen and Sherlock Holmes.

"Can I flick your face?" he repeated. "I just love doing this." He turned to Sherlock, who knew full well this wasn't about John; this was about Magnussen getting whatever he needed from _him_. "I could do it all day." He grinned even wider. "It works like this, John. I know who Mary hurt and killed." Flick. "I know where to find people who hate her." Flick. "I know where they live. I know their phone numbers." Flick. Flick. "All in my Mind Palace-- all of it. I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down-- and I will... unless... you let me flick your face."

Sherlock tried to ignore Magnussen's taunting. Tried to listen for the helicopter. Strained his hearing through sheer force of will, until John's voice cut through it all, saying "Sherlock?" But they had to wait. He had to let him. But it was so much easier now. Easier to do when it wasn't just for Mycroft. Or just for his own self. Now it was for _John_ , in a far more concrete way than just getting rid of Mary's final protector. Finally, he heard it. It wasn't long before everyone else did too. The whirring of the blades.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Stand away from that man!"

"Here we go, Mr Holmes!"

"To clarify-- Appledore's vaults only exist in your mind, nowhere else, just there."

"They’re not real. They never have been."

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Step away."

"It’s fine! They’re harmless!" 

He heard a radio transmission stating that the target was not armed. John asking what they should do. Magnussen replying, "Nothing."

"Sorry. No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr Holmes!"

He remembered asking John to give his love to Mary... to tell her she was safe.   
She needed to think she was safe....

 

"Stand down! Do not fire!" Mycroft's voice, sounding authoritative, reaching for control. "Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do not fire!"


	16. Chapter 16

When he was five, Sherlock loved to play Tetris. 

Mummy made a rare exception to her normal disdain for arcade and computer games, for some reason that Mycroft dared not question. She must have seen this particular one as promoting some hidden mathematical agenda, and brought it home one afternoon. She knew her sons couldn't both play at the same time, but playing together cooperatively seemed unlikely anyway -- against each other would have to do. Challenging each other's high scores eventually became a quotidian event. 

Mycroft nearly always won. Not because he was any better at pattern placement. And arguably, it was Sherlock who had the faster reflexes and far more dexterous (and far less pudgy) fingers. It was because this somewhat-newer version showed what the piece-yet-to-come would look like. A blue bar. A green "T". Sherlock refused to look at the next one before it was already descending rapidly into the playing field. 

Mycroft played to win; to not glance up at the top of the screen for a sneak preview was idiotic. Sherlock simply lined up his pieces carefully and waited for that long, blue bar to make its appearance and take out four rows simultaneously-- the screen omitting a brilliant flash of light as its additional reward. While he was waiting to fill the carefully-crafted gap, he stacked the other pieces off to the side, still carefully avoiding any detrimental spacing, until they reached the very top of the screen. 

The bar would come. And when it did, it was worth it. 

Except when it wouldn't come, and it would top out. Or when it did come, but the rest of the stacks were far too high to maneuver the bar successfully into position. 

A glorious success or a spectacular failure. That was Sherlock. 

Mycroft never did quite understand.


	17. Chapter 17

"Oh, Christ, Sherlock."


	18. Chapter 18

"Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?"


	19. Chapter 19

"Lady Smallwood has determined, in light of Magnussen being responsible for her husband's death and you being responsible for his, to provide you with a special project-- in lieu of imprisonment."

"Let me guess. That assignment you had me refuse earlier. Will they be providing me with a cyanide capsule?"

"I will do everything in my power to furnish you with enough background infor--"

"I think my fate is clear. After all, you are never wrong about these things, are you?"

"The actions of foreign governments are always impossible to predict with absolute accuracy, Sherlock. But-- I won't say it looks any more hopeful than I had originally implied."

"A stop at home for six months worth of clothing, and hop on a plane, then?"

Sherlock had enough time to grab a few supplies he deemed essential and to text John for he and Mary to meet him at the airfield. There was a conspicuous lack of material for Mycroft to brief him on.

"She has informed me a full dossier will be at your hotel upon arrival."

"Of course. Standard procedure, not giving an agent anything to review until he is already at the specified location."

"Don't make this more difficult than it already is. I will do whatever I can. It... just... takes some time."


	20. Chapter 20

She had hugged Sherlock goodbye, gave him a friendly peck on the cheek, and had assured him she would keep John in trouble. While he was speaking with John privately, Mary heard a ping and glanced quickly at her mobile. 

**Your services are no longer required.**

She stared in disbelief before rapidly texting back, **Did I do something wrong?**

She waited a few moments, then a few moments more, before typing again **He's right here with me. Right now.**

No response. She kept her panic in check. Was she supposed to leave right now? Would she get further instructions? Was this... it? She clenched her mobile tightly in her fist. _That bastard. That bastard came back to life and ruined everything!_ He even killed Magnussen to "help" her-- and what could she possibly say to that? Tell him the man who everyone thought was ready to take her down was actually protecting her? Magnussen had only managed to take two of her enemies out of circulation so far, and Mary had suspected it was due to a lack of effort, though there was really nothing she could have said about it. He hadn't even gotten to the most dangerous one. Well, he wouldn't _now_ , that was for damn sure.

She had initially taken some comfort in the fact that Sherlock was so clearly guilty and would receive punishment for his crime-- no better than anything she had ever done-- but no. Now, instead of winding up in prison, he was being sent off somewhere on a mission. He got to take on a new assignment, even as she had lost hers. The injustice was infuriating.

Jim wasn't employing her any longer. Magnussen was dead. Now what? _Time to start all over again._ She shielded her eyes and glared fiercely up at the plane, which had just taken off. Sherlock... headed on some great adventure somewhere. At least she would never be seeing him again. By the time he came back from this European jaunt she would be long gone. She was deciding just where to run off to when there was a sudden commotion and Mycroft Holmes hurried out of his car. She looked down at yet another message popping up on her phone. A video-- with Jim's face. "Did you miss me?" was playing on some sort of loop. And then, the plane was turning around. Bringing Sherlock back. 

She turned to look at John, who seemed so completely relieved as the wheels finally touched the ground. As if Sherlock had received a pardon from The Queen herself. And then it all clicked. He did, didn't he? That little "private moment", it had been a last goodbye. This was something Sherlock never anticipated coming back from. But somehow he did.

And this mystery message. Mycroft was puzzled. John was, of course, clueless. Whoever did it saved Sherlock's life. She decided if no one was likely to come forward and claim responsibility she might as well take the credit and get in everyone's good graces. Until the time was right. Just because she wasn't working for anyone now didn't mean there wasn't a job to finish. She had a promise to keep to Sherlock Holmes, after all.

****

Sherlock hung his head. He raised it slightly, only to slowly, carefully roll it to the side to lean against the car window.

"Naloxone a bit unpleasant?"

He was slow to answer. "All of the negative side effects of Morphine and none of the positive ones."

"How can you be certain, then, which troubles come from which source?" Mycroft looked genuinely concerned, but apparently that didn't prevent his chalking up another moral point on their perpetual scoreboard. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how to respond. 

"I had to get it turned around somehow; that required either a problem with the plane itself or with its cargo. You could have told me you had a plan in the works to keep me from going back to Eastern Europe." He added as an aside, "Though I suppose you _have_ been playing at being Jim Moriarty for a quite some time now, so it makes _sense_."

"You could have told me you intended to shoot Magnussen yourself."

"Your government position is very helpful to me. I wouldn't want it compromised. How ever would I get into a top secret lab if your clearance was revoked?"

"I'm sure you'd find some way. And besides... I didn't do this. If I had known you were coming right back to London, do you honestly think I would have sent off that text firing Mary? She might be a tad displeased about the situation. I had waited until you were safely airbourne."

"You should have waited until John was safe."

"Brother mine, as is so often the case, the wife doesn't blame her husband. She blames the other woman. Foul temptress that you are." He smiled broadly. "Oh, if looks could kill--"

"-- you would surely find a way to weaponise them." He leaned his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes.


	21. Chapter 21

John poked at his lamb curry. It tasted off. Or maybe he just didn't feel like eating. Sherlock didn't either, which wasn't unusual, and John tried not to think of the drug cocktail still coursing through his veins that had stolen away whatever there might have been of Sherlock's appetite. Mary had insisted on food, and she didn't seem to have any qualms about it-- though when John offered her his lamb she said she had eaten far too much in one sitting. She politely explained how she would end up with digestion issues, her stomach being currently flattened-- trapped between the baby and other essential organs. She excused herself to the loo. 

"John. I wasn't actually cutting it as close as it may have seemed. I know my limits. I just needed to create a scenario whereby the pilot had no option but to..."

"I don't want to hear this. I knew what you were going to do with them when I agreed to hand them off on the tarmac. I knew you had no choice, but I didn't like this plan then and I still don't. Just because you didn't keep me in the dark, and because I eventually agreed, doesn't mean I am okay with it. It was entirely too close a call." Sherlock watched as John tightened his fist. "You overdid it. You took far more than what I had brought you. That list had twice as many things on it than what we agreed upon."

"Well, I _had_ started with just that."

John raised an eyebrow.

"I had to go deeper. I wasn't responding quite the way I had anticipated. It... has been a while, John. And it is hardly an exact science."

"You are back. You are alive. That is all I want to say about this."

Sherlock gave a tight nod. "Also, I don't recommend you eat the curry."

"Do you think she....?"

"Well, once she had determined there would be no negative consequence from the huge risk of exposure at Christmas-- that she actually got away with it-- she would naturally have coasted a bit, high from your perceived stupidity." John narrowed his eyes. "But once she realised any protection she had negotiated with Magnussen was no longer available, coupled with the loss of her only remaining source of aid now that Moriarty-- who is Mycroft by the way, as Moriarty's actually quite dead--"

"Ta for that late bit of info."

"Now that Moriarty has fired her... she has nowhere else to turn. So, I would expect her to be true to form-- by which I mean I would expect her to panic in desperation and make a grave error."

"Funny how... _firing_ exposes your priorities."

Sherlock laughed at that. It was deep, and rich, and beautiful... and John damn near swooned at the sound of it. He would have, if he wasn't so pissed off at the man sitting across from him. 

"She is likely to lash out, and with the lack of physical evidence, we no longer have much of a shield from her actions. So. I will have to plan something without the added insurance. A sort of... agreement to help her resettle somewhere. Nothing new to her. If she is genuinely tired of this life on the run, she can keep her identity as Mary Watson, née Morstan, and you two can simply part ways." 

"Like any ol'... non-psychopathic couple?"

"John. Throwing terms around like that is.... She doesn't have what I would call your standard moral code, but I'm sure she does have one. The world needs its covert agents. People willing to do the unthinkable."

"'Freelance', he said. Called her a bad girl. God, I know why it worked for me-- waiting till I was at my lowest, and showing up flashing that beautiful smile of hers-- but please don't tell me it worked for you? I thought at least you could be counted on not to go thinking with your-- Oh, that's not it, is it? It's not because some female batted her lashes and gave you the 'never meant to kill you, Sherlock' and played herself off as a victim of circumstance." His voice dropped and he struggled to continue. "It's that you honestly think that killing you is forgivable."

Sherlock grinned. "Certainly enough people have considered it." That was the smile he saved just for self-deprecating situations-- a little bit too broad and held a little bit too long while he assessed if the joke was working effectively...with sadness still in his eyes. The smile faded as John remained stone-faced. "I have said it before-- I don't especially wish to die, It's just a risk I'm willing to take-- but that isn't it. I.... Both of us have crossed that line as well."

"So you are equating warfare-- the defense of one's country-- with her shooting you?"

"Oh, no. Jeff Hope. Charles Augustus Magnussen."

"I told you that first night that I wouldn't be losing any sleep killing a multiple murderer."

"And a businessman?"

"Magnussen is one too; he just doesn't pull the trigger himself."

"And Mary may have killed a slew of Hopes and Magnussens."

"And maybe, if that's all she did, I would have found a certain peace with it. But she also killed _you_. She knew. She knew exactly what you meant to me. What your death did to me the first time around. There was no way she wouldn't know what it would have done to me if I had," he swallowed, "--lost you again." He reached across the table to place his hand lightly over where the scar on Sherlock's chest was hidden beneath his shirt. "I love you."

They both leaned forward instinctually, suddenly all too aware of the table between them. It was, in fact, hitting that table that brought John back to his senses, just seconds before Mary plopped down next to him.

She looked at them both and smiled.

"Well, well, well. So.... tell me, boys..." She slowed down for maximum impact. " _Did you miss me?_ "

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to her face.

"Surprised? It seemed to me that you could use a little travel advice. It's not the best time to visit Eastern Europe."

John looked thoroughly chastened and mumbled, "Thank you."

"It _was_ a one-way trip, wasn't it? Just... trying to make it good. We square, then?" She winked. Sherlock gave his familiar too-wide grin and bobbed his head but it was John who spoke. "Look, Mary, I..."

"Let's just have dinner, all right? The details can wait. I'd rather not make a scene."

"Right. Okay."

They ate in silence: John shuffling the lamb around, Sherlock finally picking at a dinner roll, Mary deciding that, keeping up appearances on her internal real estate be damned-- she was going to have a slice of cheesecake after all.


	22. Chapter 22

On the ride back, the cabbie went down a different street and Sherlock quickly straightened up from his slouch against the window, eyeing John with concern. A few turns later and they were in front of the clinic.

"Won't be a minute. I just need to get something from work before we head back." Mary pulled out her set of keys and headed inside. She came back a few minutes later with a folder sticking halfway out of her purse. "File I wanted to show both of you. And, one more stop." She turned to Sherlock. "You're not the only one with a bolthole, you know."

John looked concerned; as if the best move might be to simply let the taxi drive off once Mary got out and headed to wherever this other stop was. Sherlock seemed to be processing his next move as well. "And we are to accompany you to this second location?" he asked.

John crossed his hands over his chest in what he hoped looked like impatience to mask the sudden uptake in his breathing. _Second location_. Two days ago, there had been an investigation ( Sherlock proclaimed it a four). An assault victim had been forced to a secondary crime scene, where they were killed; Lestrade had made a rather grumpy comment about how getting taken to a second location never ended well for the victims. John twisted slightly sideways, hoping Sherlock could see he was armed without alerting Mary to that fact. Sherlock gave a quick glance at where it was hidden. Good. He was aware. John had seldom been without a weapon since Christmas.

"Just another file. The one I'm getting next is more confidential. It concerns _me_." She tapped the one jutting out of her bag. "This one is the both of you. Together... in one file. I intend to give you both of the files. A gift. An apology."

"I didn't read the drive... I don't need to see--"

"This isn't about you, John. I _owe_ it to Sherlock." She paused. "I've got to make it good."

*****

They accessed the inside of the building via a rather rickety fire escape, which Mary took on with far more coordination than her visible "condition" would have suggested. Sherlock had been right about her making mistakes when flustered. Once inside, she beckoned them to a small table, then reached into her purse and threw the file down with an audible thwap. As Sherlock and John reflexively turned towards it, she pulled out the gun which had been concealed beneath it and pointed it directly at Sherlock's head. 

"So slow. I thought you were supposed to be the one who saw _everything_." John looked far more furious than Sherlock, who seemed to still be assessing the situation. "And now, here we are. I promised you I'd kill you, Sherlock. If I remember correctly, I said to take one more step and I would, and you did. Almost like you wanted to die." 

The more she talked, the more John seethed, but he refused to let himself be distracted by her baiting.

"May I?" said Sherlock, glancing at the file. "I take it there is no second file. But this one looks to be authentic."

"Oh no, please. You've got the rest of your life."

John let the rising tide of anger lift him up. He told himself he was made for moments like these, even as a part of him wanted to just close his eyes and grieve. His voice was resigned, and more than a bit sad. "You were there."

"My second assignment with Jim. To be honest, I wasn't all that impressed. He wasn't kidding when he said he was changeable. It is an annoying trait in a boss." 

Sherlock turned a page in the file and chuckled. Mary diverted her focus, glancing at the now-spread-out mess of loose, scattered papers for the briefest of seconds, puzzled by whatever he had found amusing. When she looked back up, John was aiming his weapon squarely at her. He had spotted the diversion quickly, of course, but silently cursed himself for not being quite fast enough to have taken his shot. Shooting when her focus was back on Sherlock remained dangerous. He could feel himself shifting gears. Thoughts condensed. He could hear short, terse commands running through his head.

Early on, in both his military _and_ his medical training, they used to go on the theory that if you could damage the right side of the brain-- by, say, shooting someone in the head-- the   
fingers of the left hand would contract in a reflex response. The right side of the brain controlled the left side of the body. This was helpful information if someone had a knife to a hostage's throat. Knife in the right hand? ... go for the right side of the head. But then they changed protocol.

Injury to a frontal lobe was not only survivable, but the target might not even lose consciousness. Now, it was all 'Shoot the T-box': across the eyes and down the nose. Still much controversy, of course. Some swore the hypothalamus was a good target-- no reflex response at all-- if one could just guarantee reaching it. The gold standard was the brainstem. 

_T-box. Brainstem. Like slamming an off-switch. Close range. Angle. Deflection. Brains. Brains are so goddamn protected._

The notion that Sherlock's brain was as potentially protected by a skull as Mary's offered no comfort whatsoever.

She was deadly accurate, but then again, at this range so was he. Any distraction and she could easily take him out first, and then Sherlock a split second later. As it was, the standoff seemed to drag out, until it seemed like nothing more than a contest to see who could hold their arm up the longest. No one moved a muscle-- except for how much Mary was moving her mouth. She was going on about how she couldn't see their faces well at all from her vantage point at the pool, and had absolutely no idea who they were, but that what had really stayed with her was just how _adorable_ they looked once she had collapsed the scope and started to pack up. During the moment they had briefly thought they were safe.

If they kept this up he hoped that Mary would slip up, but her training was impeccable. He engaged her in a bit more conversation to shift his focus away from the slow ache seeping into his muscles. Had she followed them after that? (No) Been responsible for blowing up the flat in the supposed gas leak? (No) The cold, damp air within the poorly-insulated bolthole didn't help matters. _It might even be cold enough to slow down bleeding, so there's that._ Something needed to give.

"Where are you from, Mary?"

She laughed. "From?"

"Oh, yes. I remember. You said military upbringing. Dead father."

"That's what I _said_ , yes. You were a soldier, as was your father before you, and his father before him." She chuckled. "You're not the type who would listen to Hole, are you? Courtney Love talks about this reporter who really believed that he was just like her. Trailer-park-drunk childhood, all full of incest stories. She practically ran the whole interview. Know what I do, John, when I need someone to do exactly what I want? Make them think I really, truly understand something about them. Something they don't talk about. Doesn't matter if you _really do understand_. Honestly, they are most likely completely fucked up and you probably don't." It was _Sherlock_ who struggled to control himself this time; John seemed to just grow calmer instead. "Just so long as they think you _get_ them. The really funny part is, she's telling the story about _this_ reporter to _another_ fucking reporter. Now _that's_ genius. Talk about making someone think they're special!"

"I'd ask if there was truth to any of it, Mary. To anything you told me about yourself. But actually... I don't care."

"Well that's good, because I think when it comes to-- What? What are you--"

Sherlock jumped reflexively from the blast as Mary fell backwards, hitting the concrete floor. The red dot, still visible, was now threatening to blend into the patches of blood dripping down what had once been a white wall. John spun around, gun still raised, and peered into the darkness. 

"Trajectory point... to your left" Sherlock said, keeping his voice steady. 

John pivoted and saw a man step out of the shadows.

"Got nuffin' against you, Doctor. I would say sorry 'bout the missus, but, well... I ain't sorry. And from what I seen you ain't neither. She's a tough one to leave, she is. My boy found out the 'ard way." He collected himself and cleared his throat. "Name's Michael Waters." Waters knelt down and placed his gun on the floor. He rose slowly and grunted a bit, as if getting back up were difficult. 

"If you wanna kill me, you can. Nobody alive fears death less then me. 'Ope you don't, but my job's done anyway. Perhaps, if you'd 'ad someone you loved that... well, if you knew what she'd--" The man shook his head. "Maybe you'd've done as much yeself."

John gave a quick glance at Sherlock before tucking his gun back into his jacket. 

"Mr Magnussen was... like a bishop blockin' the path. Just needed a knight. Pawn like me can take down a queen if the pieces is lined up right. Mr 'Olmes-- the other Mr 'Olmes, that is-- said like 'e'd be takin' care of things 'isself. Didn't think that'd mean through _you_. Lettin' your brother take the fall like that don't sit well with me. I 'ope 'e pays for that."

"He will, I'm sure."

Waters looked carefully at Sherlock's wry face and seemed to see something in it. Waters's smile was soft, and caught Sherlock off guard; he looked down for a brief moment, before looking up again-- this time facing John instead of the old man.

"Anyway, I pulled a few strings. Least I could do. To thank you for... clearin' the way. Now, gentlemen, if you don't mind makin' your exit, and not informin' the proper authorities... I always got to clean up after meself. Work's only 'alf finished."

"Go and do the other half, Mr Waters. I, at least, am not prepared to prevent you. John?"

"I don't think we were ever here."

"Oh, and don't you two go worryin' 'bout the fake belly." John snapped his head up. "The other Mr 'Olmes told me 'bout it. But it took him a bit to find out. That's why I'd waited so damn long... otherwise it woulda been a fine Christmas present to meself." 

He waved them away. "I'll take it off. Don't wanna 'ave 'er bobbin' up now, would we? Now go on."

Sherlock and John left. The taxi was still idling outside.


	23. Chapter 23

John turned to Sherlock, dazed, unable to answer the cabbie's query of where to. After some silence, John finally suggested Baker Street. It was something familiar. Instinctual. Sherlock simply nodded and turned to face him. 

"Whatever you want to do."

"Ummm. Okay. I don't... I don't know how I should..."

"It's fine. Any reaction. Mourning isn't inappropriate, given the circumstances."

"Are you sure? I mean... how can mourning be appropriate for losing someone who just tried to kill the only person that matters to you."

"Sometimes we don't mourn for what we lost, so much as mourn for what we never truly had."

"Right then. Yes. So-- there is a lot to mourn." John looked down and mumbled, "She really... turned my life around," before looking back up to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Thank you. For doing it a second time. For pointing me in the right direction. For giving me my life back."

Sherlock gave a quick nod and paused just inside the doorway before heading to the small table in the foyer. He opened the drawer and handed John a key. He didn't say a word, but his expression spoke volumes. _In case you need it. Any time._

John's mouth curled into a quick smile, then faded back into blankness. 

"Tonight okay, then?"

"Of course. You can take my bed. I sleep on the sofa as often as not anyway."

"Sherlock, I... we could share a bed."

"Yes, we could. Or not. Not to be repetitive, but..."

"But whatever I want to do."

"Yes."

Sherlock headed toward the sofa, making a last-minute detour for his violin. As he tuned up, John settled himself in Sherlock's room. He pulled off most of his clothing, save his socks and pants, and sat numbly on the foot of the bed, slouched forward. John suddenly had a vivid flash of what he must look like. Old, tired, flabby, folded over at the gut. The portrait of someone who had continually made the wrong choices. Literally. A portrait. He felt like he was in some sort of painting entitled "The Fallen Man", or perhaps something even less flattering. 

He wished he could cry. Crying was supposed to make things better, right? Some sort of stress valve. An emotional venting. But he only felt empty and numb. Then he felt sorry for himself, and then, sorry for feeling sorry for himself. No good could come of this. Maybe he should go watch telly.

"John?"

He hadn't noticed when the violin had stopped.

"I'm not particularly good at this sort of thing, John, but then again I expect neither are you. Though come to think of it, perhaps you have received some sort of training, being that you were a soldier, and, well, seeing as how you-- The death of a brother-in-arms would hardly be a unique experience, when one considers the sheer volume of casualties in--" 

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Was there something else you wanted to discuss, besides wartime statistics?"

"I... maybe yes."

"And perhaps not speaking through a door might help?"

"I think maybe so."

"Okay"

John got up and headed toward the door, throwing on a vest more out of habit than modesty. When he opened it, John was surprised to find Sherlock's gaze quickly diverting to the jumper and trousers tossed on the floor instead of John himself. He almost seemed embarrassed. No. He _did_ seem embarrassed. _By me?_ John couldn't help but shoot a quick glance   
down at himself. 

"I'm sorry. I just thought maybe you... well..."

"Could use a distraction as opposed to sitting alone feeling sorry for myself about how I wouldn't know a good thing if it bit me in the arse? How there aren't many more good years left and I keep fucking them up with bad choices?"

"Something like that, yes. The distraction part... not the... not the bad choices part."

"But it's true." He sighed. "We're...we're done with this Mary Situation now, and...well, maybe we should finish our discussion. About what it is we have, exactly."

"Timing, John?"

"Not a thing wrong with this timing, Sherlock, except it is long overdue. I want some certainty. I want to know what I can expect. I want, a good, honest talk, for once in my goddamn life. That's what I want."

Sherlock crossed the threshold and sat down next to John on the foot of the bed. As he felt the springs give, John had a moment when he felt as if the whole bed would upend itself and flip over the tops of their heads. The irrationality of the thought almost made him smile. As if the two of them simply sitting side-by-side would topple things.

"We have already established a mutual interest in being each other's lifelong companion... but as far as the form in which that would manifest itself--"

"Sherlock. I already bloody-well said I love you."

"Love. Yes. The Greeks had four terms for love, each differing in its--"

John's voice was raising in frustration. "You deleted the solar system but you kept the Ancient Greek classification of love?!"

Sherlock leapt off the bed indignantly, but still managed to surpass John in volume, "It was recently acquired information! From when I was trying to figure out what I was feeling for _you_!"

It could have stopped right there and it would have still been charming, but something in John snapped.

"Well, I damn-well didn't mean agápē or... storge! I mean _love_ love! The kind that wants to know what you would sound like when you throw back your head and gasp for breath as I'm marking up that stupidly long neck of yours that's always peeking out of that... stupid... popped-up collar. That's what I'm talking about! That's what I've been trying not to think about for all the months that you've been back... I've lost count how many.... because I didn't think you'd want that _ever_. And then I see you offer it up to Janine, and then I see that no, no, that was fake, I was right, it isn't something you _do_ , now, is it? And that's _good_ , actually, because then you don't really want me again, so then I can make a safe space in my head for it, because that's where things like that should stay. It isn't who I bloody-well am. I don't feel that sort of thing for men. Or at least that's what I've been telling myself for the past thirty years. That when you have dreams about your straight mate at uni, or your commanding officer, or your bloody _dead_ flatmate and you wake up with a hard-on it's only because _you can't have them_ that that happens. Because _that isn't reality_. It isn't me in real life, now is it? And what you do in real life... that is what you are. So if I've never...if I've never _done_ anything, I'm fine. I'm safe. I'm leading a perfectly normal life and I'm not gay and I don't really want you and that's fucking _fine_ , because I only want the things I can't possibly have and besides that you don't really want me either... why on Earth would you?" The rant left him exhausted, and he collapsed forward, his hand grabbing his hair and his head resting on suddenly damp forearms.

Sherlock stood frozen.

John's voice was broken by sobs. "Look, just... just go, okay? Looks like I'm not in any place to discuss any of this."

"I... maybe you are right. We have been through more than enough for one day." He turned to leave, and John appeared to be regaining what was left of his composure. "And for what it's worth... I wasn't trying to be clinical in my word choice to be detached, John. I know it doesn't seem that way, to bring up these archaic terms. But it really is the closest to how I feel, and, maybe what that is isn't really going to be okay with you. You aren't the only one struggling between fantasy and reality."

John glanced up and blinked.

"Éros most closely aligns with sexual passion, but still remains philosophical. Appreciating beauty within a person becomes appreciation of beauty itself. You love a person, and then you learn to love love. That's very close to my experience, John. You have taught me to love the idea of love. And Plato, well, we all know about platonic love, because he didn't think physical attraction was a necessary component, but, in truth, he believed that eros helped people connect to beauty, which leads, in turn, to erotic desire. That's not the way things are supposed to work, I know. It's backward; I'm backward. Because by appreciating the _beauty_ in you, John, I was able to truly see it, where I never could before. To open up to it. It is very confusing--erotic love. I don't understand it. But I want to. So, I can't say lust comes first. It's a sort of, extra item. I don't know how I will respond. Apart from theoretically." His lips quirked into an almost-grin. "It is... disconcerting...to say the least. So... what I'm saying-- and I know I should have left you alone by now-- is that neither one of us knows if this will work in reality. And, that's...good?" Sherlock shifted his hand back and forth, weighing invisible possibilities in his open palm. "Or maybe I mean it's not good, in the sense that it is twice as likely to be unsuccessful--since all it would take would be for one of us to have a problem and the whole possibility of expanding the relationship would fall apart." 

John gained a greater control of his emotions, but all that was left in its wake was utter confusion. "What?"

"I mean it's good in that it's something we both can relate to. Less pressure, less blame, greater support, greater understanding. And...I'll go." He headed toward the door.

"No, just...wait."

Sherlock turned back. "Yes?"

"I... I need some time to clear my head, but, that doesn't mean I think we are on the wrong track. You are right. We can figure it out together. I thought I would never go back to that stage again...figuring out this stuff together. Thought I was done with that a long time ago. But. You are right. It is...good. We are at the same place. Kind of. And, no matter what happens, it shouldn't make a difference, right?"

"Not when it comes to anything of true importance. Is there... anything I can do that would help? Because I would be doing it if I could think of something, but, I don't seem to be able to come up with--"

 

"-- I don't think there is anything to be done to help someone who is processing a new life with his nonexistent child and a dead wife who was moments away from killing him before she was gunned down herself by a crime boss like who looked old enough to have been a close personal friend of Al Capone...or The Godfather, but less Italian and more Cockney. They don't make sympathy cards for that. I... this would be a good time to drink, wouldn't it?"

"Whatever you--"

"Whatever I want to do. Yes. I get it. It would be nice if I'm really exhausted and once the adrenaline is used up, so to speak, I'll fall asleep. That would be a nice thing. But until that moment, I have no idea what I want to do. Ta."

Sherlock sat back on the bed, and this time John didn't feel like the mattress would flip over so much as that it would swallow them whole, like some... bed amoeba. Ok. He must be tired. 

"Lie down, John. Try to rest."

John must have muttered something about the giant bed amoeba, because Sherlock was popping off his shoes and saying he'd be right there to protect him from whatever his subconscious might drudge up. John nodded in foggy gratitude, and somehow, in spite of his spinning mind, managed to fall asleep in minutes.


	24. Chapter 24

John looked up at Sherlock as he buttered his toast.

"So, you... _are_ a virgin, then?"

"John. That detail is irrelevant."

John shrugged.

"Yes. Fine. I'm a virgin. But I am not a teenager. Please don't confuse the concepts simply because they so frequently coincide. I am an adult. I've had orgasms before. They are, generally, relatively uninspiring and physically relaxing. I can't imagine obtaining them by other means as radically different." He paused, drew his mouth into a crooked line and looked skyward. "Actually, given there is another person to worry about, it is probably considerably less efficient."

"I believe _you_ were the one who had said something about _me_ being a bit short of an enthusiastic endorsement?" John snarked. "Okay, I promise to only ask you this once, because I know you are perfectly capable of telling people your feelings on any subject whatsoever without fear of offending them. But. Sometimes sex is different. People feel their partner wants or expects something, and they end up trying things they don't want to, so--"

"How can you know you don't want to do something if you have never tried it?"

"Yup. Spoken like a virgin with a sense of adventure. There are almost always things that just hold no appeal whatsoever. Or might even be a major turn-off."

"I suppose I know nothing that is inherently unappealing to the extent that I wouldn't be willing to form an accurate assessment through personal experience." 

John paused to think. "Really?"

"Really. And should I be exposed to something I dislike immensely, I will simply stop. It isn't as if I wouldn't have the capability of doing so. Unless... that's one of the things you were referring to?" John raised his eyebrows slightly and leaned forward in acknowledgment. "In which case, I suppose something like that would merely be relegated to the very end of the list. When we both are more proficient at determining what is acceptable and what is not."

John nodded, surprised. "Oookay. Gotcha."

John abandoned the toast and hovered right in front of Sherlock, who was still seated at the table, both men trying to read any possible cues with which they were somehow being supplied. Sherlock responded to the scrutiny by tilting his head back at an angle. It looked haughty, but at the same time, he knew it would expose his neck-- a calculated key feature-- and create a somewhat smoother line where it met his chin. Light and angles could be both friend and enemy to his always severe features. John was simply watching. Not moving closer, but certainly not receding. _This is taking far too long._ While he was waiting, ever more impatiently, he saw John finally smile, victorious. _Oh. That is **want** I feel, isn't it? _Sherlock wouldn't be so bold as to call it desire... just... want. John guided the chair away from the table with Sherlock still in it and swung his legs to either side, leaning forward for balance. The motion brought them to where they were touching, pressing, trousers against trousers.

"Okay. So we see where this goes."

"Right." 

John touched the top of his head. "Never could quite reach here. Mind if I..."

"I mind very much your compulsion to ask if I mind. If something isn't perfectly fine, I will say so."

John nodded and proceeded to paw at Sherlock's hair, much to his dismay. The prelude seemed rather ridiculous to Sherlock, who would have preferred to just jump right to the sex, if he could. This -- well it wasn't even foreplay-- what _was_ this? Whatever it was, it was distracting and unnecessary. But, as there wasn't anything _wrong_ with it, and since John seemed to be using it to sort of transition himself into something more romantic, well, he certainly wouldn't protest. Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to catalogue the sensation of someone stroking his head like a cat. It was a few "pets" in before his brain registered it as tender. Tender. Gentle. Loving. He wanted to return the sensation. He reached for the top of John's head and found his hand sliding down smoothly-- John's hair lacked curls which would ensnare his fingers like seaweed grasping at swimmers' limbs. Sherlock rested them at the base of John's neck and hummed.

John opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again immediately, apparently thinking better of it as he leaned in closer to create an even stronger, insistent pressure between them. Sherlock could easily feel John through the fabric: heat, blood, arousal. He compared his own response to stimuli with John's erection-- already clearly on display in anticipation of a good snog. Sherlock concluded his own was inadequate. 

John had tilted his own head down, enjoying the briefest moment of height advantage. This forced Sherlock's neck upward, tendons emerging as John ran his fingers softly along them. He stopped for a moment-- surely he was considering tracing the emerging lines with his tongue-- but seemed to conclude that it would be put to better use elsewhere. As he pressed his lips against Sherlock's and opened his mouth, Sherlock found his was opening as well; it wasn't even a conscious decision. Maybe it was the firmness of pressure which had just... guided him... to.... Sherlock was at a bit of a loss, and not entirely at ease with having to play catch-up, but he was learning. It was always good to learn.

Tongues. He didn't know what to do with his tongue, except to attempt continued contact with John's. It was supposed to be sexy. Everyone knew that. Instead, it just felt strange. His mind busied itself, postulating why kissing was considered erotic. What is the purpose? Yes, it's a sensitive part of the body, rich in nerve endings, but... maybe because it's so... internal? An access point into someone's inaccessible self? He was efficiently repeating the movements John was making, but his mind had been steadily drifting away. John picking up on that now wouldn't do at all. He broke the kiss and began softly nibbling on the hollow of John's throat. Now _that_ was much better. 

Sherlock could concentrate entirely on John now. The taste of his skin. His scent. Oh, the lovely sounds he was trying so hard not to make; he wanted to hear more of those. He pushed further into his neck. Even if it turned out to be some version of a sympathetic reaction, it made no difference; it felt... good. Instinctual. Instinctual enough for... yes, he had just discovered himself grinding into John's erection, pulling him down without any conscious thought onto his lap. Everything he had been missing on his own, that had made arousal seem so far away as to be unattainable, that had made masturbation seem a pointless exercise, was here now. Fashionably late? No matter. John groaned, deep and low. And getting that sound out of John... well, he could _feel_ it. React to it. Build off of it. Sherlock groaned as well. "Good?" he somehow managed to ask.

" _So_ good." With John's affirmation, sandwiched between a panting breath and a moan, Sherlock had confirmed what he had already known. That John had made a relatively smooth transition of self-definition: from straight, to wondering, to suppressing, to accepting. His own journey was different, but a journey nonetheless. He had spent far too long tamping down every emotion. It was all there, buried under layers of his own form of denial. Sacrificed to purity of thought in the same way John's had been sacrificed to the expectations of those around him. 

And in small increments, the transition had already begun. He didn't have to redefine who or what he was. He only had to choose what he wished to do. And what he wished to do, at this moment, was simple. He wanted to take John Watson to bed. He wanted to take him to bed and divest him of his clothing, and lay him out therein, and examine every bit of skin he hadn't yet seen. Then he wanted to commit himself to determining what types of touch, what degree of pressure, what angle, what speed, what pattern would make John respond best. It was for John. Which made it for Sherlock. And after he had done that, he would let John do the same to him. He'd learn it himself as he went. He wondered briefly if John would share his systematic approach. Likely not. They were, after all, very different people. And that was a very good thing. 

Sherlock opened his mouth, and what came out, in a lower register than even he had expected of his own voice, was, "Bed. Now."

John breathed out, "Yours. Closer."

"I hate to break the passion-heightening spell of single-word sentences, John, but the fact is-- I don't have any _supplies_ , and... there _is_ no other bedroom."

John laughed. "Well, thank God you have a ridiculously large bed, then. And as for supplies, we will have to improvise until we either go shopping or get a Happy Reunion gift basket from Mrs Hudson." Then John's mouth was back on Sherlock, sliding alongside his tongue and sucking it suggestively. He stopped for a brief moment to add, "It seems I've just thought of something we could try that provides its own form of lubrication and is very different than any of your previous, uninspiring solo activity." 

Sherlock grinned and narrowed his eyes before giving a slow blink. John had never before found someone blinking to be this erotic. "Or so you think," he said, full of mischief.

John made a noise that sounded as if all the air had made a quick exit from his lungs... and  
looked as if he was about to fall over.

"Just toying with you, John. I have never tried anything more elaborate than a good quality, moisturizing soap and my right hand. But the look on your face was priceless."

John lost the battle not to laugh, lunged at Sherlock, and pinned him to the sofa. "Just for that, you obnoxious little bastard, we aren't going to make it to your fancy bed. Just for that... you'll have to cram all six feet plus of your lanky arse onto this sofa while I have my way with you." John punctuated the comment by releasing Sherlock's shoulders and reaching for the tie on his dressing gown as Sherlock's expression changed in a flash from arrogant amusement to something closer to shock. "As for me, I think I'd like to find out just how transferable this skill set is."

Sherlock, as would surprise absolutely no one, was remarkably skilled at sprawling across sofas. He simply let his feet hang over the edge at the knees, leaving his upper body resting comfortably. John relocated Sherlock's right leg to the floor and slid in. 

"Mmm. Nice."

Sherlock looked up with a certain degree of bemusement. "Nice?"

"Yes. Very nice. You must have noticed by now that you look very nice."

Sherlock gave him a crooked grin. "This was not exactly what I expected."

"You were wrong about something?"

"I didn't say I was wrong. I said it was not exactly what I expected. I expected us to be in reversed positions."

"Well, let's just say you presented a bit of a challenge for me." John paused. "You're sure you didn't set it up this way? To give me a challenge?"

"That would have been clever of me if I did, wouldn't it? But you would much more appreciate my honesty right now, as I have always been clever, but I have not always been honest. So. No. I did not orchestrate this. It isn't-- and I admit I am relying on extrapolation and conjuncture at this point-- how I think I would be most at ease. Shutting off and letting go are hardly my strong points. I much prefer to be analysing your every response to my actions. I can't shut my mind off easily."

"So don't."

"Don't? I was given to understand that the act of receiving sexual gratification requires a surrender of mind to body."

"Just use your mind in a different way. You would rather analyse me? Go right ahead. Tell me what I'm thinking. Tell me what I will be doing next. Close your eyes. More of a challenge for you." Sherlock smiled again and closed his eyes, sinking into the soft leather. "So, genius, what am I going to do first? Am I going to slide your robe off and caress every square inch, or will I just pull your cock out of your pants and suck you off?" 

Sherlock was quiet. It took John a moment to realise he wasn't just weighing options. It was clear John was fighting the impulse to backtrack-- add 'or neither, if you don't want that'-- remembering his earlier warning. When Sherlock finally spoke, his voice was strained. "I... I've never had someone say anything even remotely close to that to me and... I...." He cleared his throat; his eyes were still closed. "Judging by your tone, you were somewhat indecisive. My reaction just now may have swayed you to go with the second option."

"Good call."

John left the tie untouched and parted the fabric roughly down the center. He reached into his pajama pants and ran his fingers over his cock. Sherlock let out a gasp. "If you can't fade out, then really, really focus in, okay? What am I thinking?"

"I'm not a mind reader, John."

"But you can still tell, can't you?"

"You want this for me. You're not... no, that's me. I'm saying what I would think-- what I would want."

"And what's to say it's not the same for both of us?"

"Nothing. But if we each focus on the other to calm our own nerves, I can't imagine we'd get very far." Sherlock finally opened his eyes. "Except that you want to prove you can do this. That's different." 

"Yes. I do. I very much want to prove that I can do this. So it's a bit more than just what I would like to do to you. I sort of, need to. And I need you to let me. Please."

Sherlock responded by closing his eyes again and shifting his hips marginally forward.

John moved his hand tentatively along, watching as he eased into his touch. "I have no doubts as to your capabilities, John." Sherlock refrained from adding how external genitalia were not so radically different. Levels of sensitivity, yes. But there were definitely corresponding parts... clitoris to glans, internal nerve network to external shaft, and so on, but John might just be relishing the differences right about now, so he kept silent in his observations. He should pay close attention; John was giving him a demonstration of precisely what he liked to have done to him. Fingers tracing lightly, then a stronger grip, proceeding to hardness. He felt his own body reacting in the gaps between the analysis... as he briefly checked in. _John likes strong pressure along the shaft, contrasting with the lightest of touch along his foreskin. And I... ohhh... yes, and I rather enj-- ohhh, **yes**. _ And so it went for a few moments-- Sherlock neatly cataloging John's sequence right alongside the somewhat delayed processing of his own reactions.

It was going along nicely, steadily. Sherlock knew that wasn't about to last. _At some point in time, he will break from the more familiar types of touching and ... oh god, warmwetsoft-- oh, **John**_.

And John's moan made it even better. He needed to brace himself. John's hands were grabbing at Sherlock's hips and he gripped his forearms. It seemed uncouth to buck his hips forward, deeper into John's mouth, but John was eagerly pushing himself down and, and soon it became a matter of instinct. Each moving to get just a little bit more of the other. 

John slid slowly off, relishing the slow drag upward. "Well? You've been quiet. Care to make a deduction?" 

"That you are likely feeling very smug, and have every right to be. I am an idiot. There. Now can we get back to this?"

"I suppose so."

"Can we both.. ?"

"If you want to try that, yeah, but maintaining focus might be difficult?"

"And it makes it more difficult to learn from you. Yes. Sequentially would be best." Sherlock closed his eyes again.

John smiled at that. _Sequentially._ There was something about Sherlock, just, the way he was, that made him feel impossibly light. He undid the drawstring and kissed lightly along the bottom of his stomach, following a darkening trail of hair. 

"Something changed."

"What do you mean? Everything okay?"

"Yes. Fine. Good. It's... different. There was a shift to.." Sherlock opened his eyes and scanned John's face. "I don't quite understand."

"Lust to love, I'd expect. I suddenly just had a bit of an overwhelming feeling of how very much I love you."

"Oh."

"Yes. Shall I carry on?"

"By all means. And I... also love you. It's obvious, but it is my understanding it is best to express this verbally, on a regular basis."

"Well, it might be a good idea. Unlike you, I am completely incapable of deduction, you see." John shifted forward and gave Sherlock the lightest of kisses on his forehead and sat up beside him, occupying the very small patch of remaining sofa.

"Not completely incapable, no," Sherlock replied, as he lifted his leg off the floor and wrapped it around John, the motion sending John toppling onto him. "Though occasional guidance is still required."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta, Nightsky, as well as the fantastic folks at Antidiogenes for their ongoing support!
> 
> I can't believe this three-part series is finally complete. It was an ambitious project, but I made it to the end and I never would have made it through without the readers who took the time to leave me kudos, comments, and occasionally even out-and-out conversations. Thank you so very much. It means the world to me.
> 
> I hope everyone found a Mary they enjoyed reading. Can't wait to see how it plays out canonically :) And as always, all comments are welcome.


End file.
